MASTER YI THE WUJU BLADESMAN

Shriveled leaves tumble from shuddering branches, as a whirlwind blows over the mountain inclines. Yi suspends a couple of creeps over the ground, his eyes shut and hands collapsed, tuning in to the morning tunes of Bahrl jays. The cool wind contacts his exposed face, and stimulates his temple.

Delivering a peaceful murmur, he plunges until his boots contact the earth. He opens his eyes and grins. Clear skies are an uncommon, neighborly sight.

Yi cleans off his robe, seeing some free, fallen hairs. Most are dark, with a couple white, similar to wild silk.

How long has it been? he ponders.

Swinging a twill sack behind him, he proceeds with his climb, abandoning trees that once influenced with life, yet now stop.

Yi looks down the mountain to perceive how far he has come. The grounds underneath are delicate, delicate—fortunes to be secured. He looks forward and continues climbing. On the way forward, lilies shrink, their coral petals turning a debilitated earthy colored.

“Didn’t hope to see anybody up here,” a voice gets out.

He stops to tune in, his grasp gripping the ringed blade by his midsection.

“You additionally searching for your crowd?” The voice develops nearer. “Idiotic monsters. They generally get trapped here.”

Yi sees a maturing rancher approach, and relaxes his grasp. She wears a straightforward kirtle, sewn over with grouped pieces of fabric. He withdraws from moves close.

“Bah, spare your behavior for the priests,” she says. “You don’t appear as though you work the land professionally, ’cause those edges sure aren’t for cutting weeds. What brings you here?”

“Great day for a climb,” Yi answers, his voice pretending guiltlessness.

“So you’re here to prepare, huh? Noxus returning unexpectedly early?” she asks with a laugh.

“Where the sun sets once, it will once more.”

The rancher grunts, perceiving the old adage. It is known by most in the southern territories. “Indeed, you let me know when they return. That will be the day I sail off this island. Be that as it may, up to that point, why not set out to really utilize those blades of yours and help a fragile, old woman?”

She allures Yi to follow. He obliges.

They stop close to a lush territory. An infant takin cries in distress, its rear legs limited by thick, swollen plants that fix as the animal battles.

“That there is Lasa,” the rancher clarifies. “He’s young and imbecilic, however he’s more use to me in the field than stuck on this reviled mountain.”

“You believe it’s reviled?” Yi asks, stooping by the monster. He runs a palm over its wooly back, feeling its muscles jerk and fit.

The rancher folds her arms. “All things considered, something un-profound occurred here,” she answers, gesturing her head towards the culmination. “What’s more, without normal enchantment, the land requests food, in any event, taking life on the off chance that it needs to. Were it my decision, anything that’s up there oughta be singed.”

Yi focuses on the plants. He didn’t hope to see them this far down the mountain.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He mumbles, drawing two edges from metal sheaths on his boots. As he edges the steel near the narrowing, the plants appear to fall down.

The second waits. Dots of sweat prickle Yi’s uncovered face. He shuts his eyes.

“Emai,” he murmurs, in the tongue of his precursors. “Reasonable.”

The takin jumps free, letting out a merry, shrill bleat. On the ground, the cut plants hang like free skin.

The monster springs downhill, delighting in its opportunity as the rancher gives pursue. She grabs it up in two hands, and embraces the takin away from plain view.

“Much obliged to you!” she shouts, not understanding Yi has just proceeded on his way. She shouts toward him. “Hello! I neglected to inquire. What are you preparing for? The war is finished, you know… “

He doesn’t think back.

Not for me.

After one more hour, he arrives at the barrens. The body of a town lies surrounding him, attacked by exactly the same plants.

This is Wuju. This was home.

Yi sets out toward the cemetery, venturing past overturned pillars and stonework, remainders of houses, schools, hallowed places—the broke pieces all mix together. The remnants of his folks’ workshop are lost some place among the rubble. There is a lot to lament for, and not sufficient opportunity.

The graves he visits are organized in immaculate balance, with holes between the hills for somebody to go through. Somebody like Yi.

“Wuju praises your memory.”

He puts a hand on each handle of each blade penetrating the earth. These are his dedications to warriors, instructors, and understudies. He doesn’t avoid a solitary one.

“May your name be recalled.”

“Rest. Discover harmony in the land.”

His voice before long becomes tired.

As the sky gets painted in shades of orange, three graves stay immaculate. The nearest is set apart by a sledge, its head rusted from the mountain air. Yi hauls a peach out of his sack, setting it next to the hill.

“Ace Doran, this is from Wukong. He was unable to make the excursion with me, however he needed me to present to you his preferred organic product. He cherishes his staff, nearly as much as he adores ridiculing the cap you gave me.”

He pushes toward the last two hills, protected by brilliant sheaths.

“Emai, the climate is excusing today. Reasonable… I trust you are appreciating the glow.”

Yi gets a handle on his two short blades and slides them into the sheaths embellishing his folks’ graves. The fit is great. He tumbles to his knees and bows his head.

“May your astuteness keep on managing me.”

Standing, he ventures into his sack to recover his protective cap. The evening sun gets on its seven focal points, every appearance in an alternate shade. Holding the protective cap near his heart, he envisions the nursery of lilies that once existed here.

That was before the shouts. Before corrosive and toxin wound the land’s enchantment against itself.

He wears the head protector, and a kaleidoscope of his environmental factors fills his view. Hands collapsed together, he shuts his eyes and purges his brain. He ponders nothing. Nothing by any means. His feet lift off the earth, however he is unconscious.

Opening his eyes, he sees everything. Passing and rot, with little traces of life.

He sees spirits that abide in the domain past his own. The plants here snare them as effectively as the helpless takin, debilitating their embodiment. He knows any soul sufficiently able to break free would have relinquished this damned spot. What remains is adulterated… or destined to be.

Tormented, sad cries frequent the air. Yi used to shout out in torment himself, however that was some time in the past—back when he figured tears may bring back the dead.

He squints, and the physical world returns. For a second, he claims not to hold up under its weight upon his shoulders. At that point, he flickers once more.

The spirits keep on shouting out. Yi draws his ringed sharp edge.

He runs abruptly, clearing over the grounds like an adjustment in season one understands simply after it has passed. Instantly, he is back where he began, totally still, his blade resting in its casing.

Individually, the plants fold. Some spill from fallen housetops, others wither where they lie.

He sits leg over leg to take it all in. Presently the spirits sing with satisfaction, and he knows there is no more noteworthy indication of appreciation. As they liquefy away, the land echoes their rapture. Peach blooms sprout where the excess had held firm. Stalks of limp bamboo fix, similar to understudies requested to consideration.

A transitory grin relax Yi’s face. He eliminates his protective cap and dives into his pack, rearranging past different things he brought for the excursion. Natural products, nuts… singe, rock. Things for himself, and things to scrub the land for good.

Not at the present time. Not yet.

He recovers a dainty reed pen, and a crinkled parchment. The page is shrouded in marks.

60

54

41

Yi includes a couple of strokes by today. Underneath them are more words.

30 days between clearings.

He knows, soon enough, he should allow the rancher her desire, and send his home off on fire.

Be that as it may, not currently. Not yet.