The battlefield looked the same way it always did: a chaotic mess that Wu Hao couldn't make sense of whatsoever. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't let himself be drawn in by the way the qi was pulled in every direction and released again in swirls that were as deadly as they were beautiful, with an absolute cataclysm going on in the middle of the battlefield where the heads of the armies were clashing.

  Mostly that promise resulted in only needing a single sharp reminder from 726 before he brought his attention back to the meeting that was going on. It was an improvement, of sorts.

  726 was talking, though, so he figured that it was probably best to pay attention.

  "At my signal," he was saying, "you will gather your qi. We will then begin our assault on the camp. Slaughter everything you find. That is the mission Father has given us."

  "Brother, a question," Wu Hao said. 726 traded a glance with the Brother of the other group - 748. He'd been there every time Wu Hao had died, but usually he'd been one of the first to die, so Wu Hao didn't actually know anything about him.

  "You are on thin ice already," 726 warned. "I will already report you to the Uncles. You cannot convince me not to do so, so don't even try."

  "It's not that," Wu Hao protested. Frankly he'd mostly forgotten about that, too caught up in other thoughts.

  "Then what?" 726 said. His voice was even, but nonetheless there was a tone of impatience in his body language - or no, not quite that.

  As if given a sudden flash of insight, Wu Hao realized that 726 was nervous. Huh. The other deathsworn didn't know what was going to happen, but all this time Wu Hao had thought he'd been the only one impacted by the sight of the battlefield and the sheer quality and quantity of power being thrown around there. It seemed that wasn't the case, after all.

  "What's the signal?" Wu Hao asked.

  726 said nothing, though, just staring at him. He was trying to shame Wu Hao into silence, but Wu Hao refused to back down. In his sleeve he could feel the reassuring steel weight of the knife and also what it represented - a power that was wholly his own and that could only grow from now on.

  "It is nearly time," 748 hissed. "We should get to our positions."

  That broke their stalemate, and 726 shook his head. "You're correct. To fail now would be a tremendous disappointment to Father."

  He threw a glance that carried a hint of anger at Wu Hao. "We go on my signal," he repeated, and before Wu Hao could ask again what that signal was, he walked off.

  Wu Hao bit down on the reflexive attempt to ask again and followed. The rest fell in line between him and 726, by some unspoken sign making sure to stay closer to 726 than to him.

  It wasn't like he should have cared, but still, there was a little prick of hurt that he tried to ignore as they came to the gully and smeared themselves in their camouflage.

  He spent a long while trying to spot the moment that the cultist would appear behind them, or somewhere nearby, but whatever trick the cultist was using, it hid his qi from Wu Hao's sight pretty easily, and with his face down in the muck he couldn't smell anything except the stinking dirt he was laying in.

  If he was there at all, he was hiding very well. What would be the point, though? Why would he need to hide from them?

  Another little piece of the puzzle that Wu Hao had yet to find. Solving it meant living another day; failing to solve it would mean another death.

  He'd long since let his knife fall out of his ragged sleeve and taken it into his hand. He had no idea if the muck that stained it would mean anything for his techniques, but he hoped it didn't.

  That brought to mind another question: did the cultist always appear at the same spot, or did he pick another every time? Wu Hao searched his memories and found that he couldn't recall anything from before his first death, but in his third and fourth deaths he recalled that the cultist had appeared roughly around the same spot both times.

  He made a careful note of that, even if he had absolutely zero idea on how to capitalize on that. There was the possibility of giving him a fraction more space from the cultist when the killing began, but that was all. Would that fraction be enough to give him time to start another technique and finish it in time to make a difference?

  His hands itched with sweat against the cold steel of the knife, and whereas it'd felt rather sleek and agile in his hand earlier when he'd stolen it, it now felt like a brutish thing that he was carrying.

  He'd still not found out if the cultist was there, and it was starting to drive him insane. Was he being spied on right now, or was that just his imagination? That itch between his shoulder blades, was that a warning from his instincts that he was in danger, or was it just his body protesting against being laid there for a while in the mud without movement, after already having suffered a lack of enough food and sleep and rest?

  Waiting, Wu Hao decided, was hell. All it did was make you doubt - doubt yourself, doubt what you knew, doubt what you were going to do. If he'd known what the signal was, then he could spend his time looking for that instead of double or triple-guessing himself, laying in a pile of shit and piss and god knew what else...

  Finally - finally! - 726 raised his head so that his mouth was above the muck.

  "Go," he said simply, and began to raise the rest of his body up as well. He stood, slouched over to minimize his profile, and when there was no obvious sign that he'd been noticed, they all began to work themselves out of their mud-drenched hiding holes as well.

  When they were done, 726 closed his eyes once, nodded, and opened them again.

  "You know the plan," 726 whispered, whereas in previous times that Wu Hao had lived this day he'd said that they were going to kill everyone in the camp. For some reason he was looking straight at Wu Hao as he said it, with something hard in his gaze as if daring Wu Hao to defy him again.

  They nodded, one and all, but then a voice spoke behind them.

  "I don't," the cultist spoke, voice casual even as they all whirled around in surprise, 726 fastest of all. Wu Hao wasn't surprised - not anymore - but he did feel his heart begin to beat loudly and his skin started to feel oddly hot, even with the mud caked onto his rags.

  But he had his knife in hand. Now he had the ability to make sure things ended differently.

  "Charge!" 726 shouted, throwing stealth to the wind, and launched himself forward with a burst of qi and a growl of anger. The cultist's dagger slashed his throat before he could get more than a single step, and then set to massacring the others.

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  Wu Hao, who'd chosen a spot near the back on purpose, was still busy with trying to force his qi to listen to him when the last of them fell. He hadn't been able to move more than a muscle.

  The cultist tore his knife out of 723's back with casual ease and held it in a loose grip, studying Wu Hao and his clumsy attempts to get the Void Rip to work.

  "This is new," the cultist said, eyebrows raised. Only a few specks of gore had even touched his robes, but even so his red eyes seemed almost to glow. "Are you trying to use a technique, little deathsworn?"

  Wu Hao said nothing in return, but instead gathered his qi and set his foot forward. The knife in his hand shook slightly as he pushed his qi through it, completing the loop of qi to form a Void Rip. Like he'd predicted it didn't go as well as with the best knife he'd had so far, but it went.

  Thin threads of qi burst from the knife's tip as Wu Hao's hand shot carved into the air, forming into scraggly, ugly lines of qi that sped forwards. Little by little, he was getting better - the threads were lasting longer, seemed to be sharper, and he was using the same amount of qi for better results.

  Loosening his grip on the knife, he watched the threads shoot forwards at the cultist, a faint hope burrowing into his heart. This was where it began, the first step that he'd taken to beating the cultist.

  Then his technique was slapped aside with almost painful ease and that hope died.

  "That's interesting," the cultist said. "Where did you learn that?"

  Wu Hao said nothing, but with a grim look on his face he just raised the knife and exhaled, once.

  "Suit yourself," the cultist said.

  He made a strange half-bow, then took proper hold of his knife and pointed it at Wu Hao.

  "Here I come," he said, and threw himself forward in a lunge that nearly took Wu Hao's head off.

  Though he'd managed to stumble away from that, the next move aimed for his throat, and he had to raise his knife to block the attempt, steel clashing against steel with a ringing sound. The knives stayed locked in place.

  Two attacks, and Wu Hao was already having to grit his teeth and push with all the strength he had. With a deft little flick the other man disengaged from the lock, took a step back, and the whirlwind of slashes and stabs resumed.

  Wu Hao hadn't realized before just how outmatched he was. He'd understood it, maybe, on an intellectual level: seen the way the cultist moved and knew that he wasn't as fast, seen the other man's knife work and admired its deftness, how simple and well-practiced every single move looked. But in some part of his mind he'd thought a stupid thought, in retrospect:

  I could match that.

  But it was clear he couldn't. Slashes landed through his attempts to guard, leaving long bleeding lines on his arms. Deeper cuts lined his head, including blood seeping from an open wound just above his left eye.

  For every cut he attempted to land, the cultist easily managed three. Whenever he tried to predict the cultist's next move, he was read in return and easily outmaneuvered. The cultist moved easily across the field, while Wu Hao had to pull his feet free from the mud with every step.

  The other man was faster, had practiced more and harder, was stronger, and had more qi. Certainty made his every move deadlier than it ought to have been, while hesitation and a need to ration his qi blunted all of Wu Hao's attacks - if they even reached.

  This was the difference between someone in the second grade and someone in the third. Wu Hao felt certain of that now. If he had any hope left, it was that he'd managed to actually wound the cultist in their last fight, but it was becoming clear that he'd drawn the wrong lessons from that death.

  "Rending Art," Wu Hao wheezed, the moment he could manage to complete the loop of qi. He'd had to give up several deep wounds on his left arm for it, but he hoped it was worth it. "Void Rip!"

  Another thin line burst forth, this time vertical, aimed at the cultist's heart. It was dodged easily, but Wu Hao launched himself forwards as far and as fast as he could, closing in on the cultist's heart, knife following the path that the Void Rip carved through the air almost like it was pulling him forward.

  For a moment, he felt a desperate hope. He knew that the cultist was toying with him, but that left an opening, one he could exploit... Mid-sprint he'd gathered the little bit of qi that he had left into the pattern that the Rending Dagger Art: Long Hook demanded, hoping that he wouldn't mess it up...

  And then his qi was gone.

  Wu Hao's hand stabbed forward - but no ghostly tip manifested in front of the dagger, and there wasn't even a spray of threads of qi like when he'd killed 587. There was just nothing except maybe a tiny spark of his last qi flickering out, snuffed out like a candle.

  The cultist had danced back, still impossibly quicker than Wu Hao could hope to be and under the impression that another attack would be coming. The same instant that it was clear that Wu Hao's attack had backfired, though, a grin broke through the cultist's face. He leaned down a little, anchoring his legs in place to give himself a better footing.

  "White Demon Art," the cultist spoke softly.

  That was when Wu Hao really started to panic.

  He'd only managed to pull his feet halfway out of the muck when the cultist burst forward like a bolt of thunder at Wu Hao, a single step taking him through the distance between them easily, knife held in front like the tip of an arrow aimed directly at Wu Hao's heart.

  Wu Hao's arm raised instinctively, trying to protect himself with his knife, but without the ki that was allowing him to barely keep up, his movement was far too slow. The cultist's knife sheared through his own like it was made of candy and speared straight into his chest. Wu Hao could feel the tip burst out of his back, having run his heart through in its exact center.

  It was a perfect killing blow.

  "Rib Pinning," the cultist finished.

  Blood bubbled to Wu Hao's lips, then he coughed and it sprayed forward, all over the cultist's face and robe. The other man didn't seem to mind, though, and almost seemed ecstatic at the sight.

  He spread his arms dramatically. "Master," he claimed. "Was that good enough for you?"

  And then Wu Hao knew nothing except darkness.