He woke with a start, gasping for air. That was his fourth death so far, and yet he couldn't stop himself from feeling for the cut that must have torn through his neck. Wu Hao didn't just have that phantom pain, though, because he also had a splitting headache.

  But he was alive again. Forcing himself to calm down despite the way his heart was hammering in his chest, he studied his surroundings. The hammer that was trying to pound his skull into a fine mist slowed, too, as he adapted to whatever had happened to him.

  He was back at the march. His footsteps, which had stopped, quickly picked up again so that he wasn't punished again. He had taken that path, however unwillingly, before, and died that time.

  At least he knew how he'd died, the first time around. The cultist had appeared in their midst and slaughtered them all. Wu Hao had thought that no one had noticed their arrival, but really it seemed more like that one cultist had been sent to deal with the problem.

  And he had. Wu Hao rubbed his neck again, then let his hand drop.

  Judging by his movements, that cultist had to be a second-grade martial artist. That'd explain how he'd been able to outright toy with them all. The only second-grade martial artists Wu Hao knew were the Uncles.

  He tried to glance over at Uncle Bai, who was in the back of the marching line. The man had never explicitly spoken about his rank, but second-grade felt about right. That was based only on the qi the man could summon up, though. There were Brothers with more qi than him but none of them had the same feeling of solidity that Uncle Bai did.

  The other Uncle's qi that he'd felt was the cultivation guidance Uncle, who had a similarly solid-feeling qi. His qi felt a lot colder than Uncle Bai's, though.

  In the middle was Father, who was definitely not a second-grade martial artist. Wu Hao honestly couldn't begin to guess what level Father had reached, though. The man might have been a first-grade or a master, but either way Wu Hao had no way to know.

  Whatever the cultist's level of strength, his position or anything else, though, he was stronger than Wu Hao. That seemed an absolute fact, at the moment.

  As he walked - the surroundings hadn't changed, not a single speck of dirt was different - Wu Hao only kept half his attention on his surroundings. With the other half, he began to plan.

  A few miles later, he gave up trying to focus on long-term plans. Every time he tried, the headache that'd subsided into an occasional angry throb flared up again. He instead thought through what he could do in the short term. That didn't hurt as much, for whatever reason.

  He couldn't manage to think beyond that, though. If he came back from battle, how would Father react? He wouldn't be praised, but he might be raised to the honor guard, perhaps.

  Did he want that? That was a question only he could really answer, but he still hadn't found an answer when they finally arrived at the campsite, hours later.

  Whatever Father's reaction, the fact of the matter was that he had to survive the battlefield. Ironically he'd probably die a few more times in the process of trying to survive, but that wasn't as much of a problem as it might otherwise be.

  No - it might actually be a blessing, come to think of it. He glared up at the window that had cheerfully announced to him that he had received a fragment of a dagger art, which it had then proceeded to pour into his head with all the finesse of a charging bull.

  He desperately wanted to try out this so-called Rending Dagger Art, though. It had better be worth the headache and the death he'd suffered for it.

  "Let's go," 726 said, turning to him as they all stood around the finished tent. "It's cultivation guidance time."

  Wu Hao held back his sigh and mentally began to prepare himself for that ice-cold qi that would invade his heart. At least he had thoughts of practicing his new martial art to keep himself warm.

  That night he lay down with the others, waited until enough of them had fallen asleep, then raised himself up to his feet as quietly as he could and slipped outside.

  He rubbed his hands against the night chill the moment he passed the tent's flaps. It was cold. Was it one of the winter months? Among the things that being made into a deathsworn had cost him was an awareness of time. In so far as he had any, it was mostly based on the few events lately - the march, the speech, the battlefield. He knew when he was based only on how long ago any of those had been or how long he still had until they occurred.

  Something to worry about later. More pressing concerns was a single question: where could he get a dagger to actually practice with? Access to weapons was tightly regulated because picking weapons led to individual expression. The honor guard were allowed daggers, but they weren't easy opponents, either. And he wasn't so stupid as to try stealing from Father or the Uncles.

  Having his chest explode once was enough. Although he might gain more talent from that again? That was an interesting possibility, though he hadn’t had a chance to actually use that talent for anything yet. His feet stopped as he was walking past one tent, but then he realized that that was suspicious and walked on, trying to make his footsteps not hurried or too slow.

  Back to the dagger. Each of the Uncles had their weapons, of course, but none of them fought with daggers. That was out. In the end, walking past one of the tents and nearly tripping over one of the tent pegs, he had a realization.

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  It didn't have to be a dagger, did it, necessarily? He squatted down next to the tent and thought, mind racing. The pegs were a little long and not at all sharp, but that didn't mean that it wouldn't work. If he took one of the thinner ones...

  Sitting there in the dark, he slowly reached out and felt the tent peg. It was made of poor quality iron, more rust than real iron, and it'd probably shatter if hit with any particular force. Wu Hao held his breath and slowly slid the tent peg out of the ground.

  The fabric of the tent wriggled a bit, but then it settled again, and he palmed the tent peg into one clammy hand while he walked away with deliberately slow steps, off to the cultivation guidance area.

  No one came to look for him, but nonetheless Wu Hao's heart beat loudly in his chest. It beat so loudly that he missed the other sound he heard until it registered in some small corner of his mind.

  Breath catching, he stopped and went as still as he could, sliding the tent peg into his hand and shuffling his foot back. At the same time he made himself smaller, hunching down and forward so as to be able to make a run for it, if it came down to it.

  A patrol walked by. He couldn't read their plates in the darkness and didn't recognize their faces, either, but they didn't look back at him even as his lungs burned with the strain of holding in his breath and the grip on his improvised dagger grew slicker.

  When they were far enough, he finally relaxed little by little and slipped onwards, past the tent of Uncle Liu. It stank of medicine, a smell Wu Hao had never liked; a lamp still burned that showed him as a shadow that was vaguely visible at a desk, though unlike Father he didn't seem to be writing anything. He sat slumped, with his hands in his hair, judging by the silhouette.

  Finally, Wu Hao reached the open expanse of air that served as the cultivation guidance area. He'd been there for the third time a few hours before; he navigated through the field mostly by touch and memory, remembering to avoid the part where the other deathsworn had died again today.

  It occurred to him that he might have been able to do something to avoid that, but he didn't know the other boy's number, let alone why he had slipped in his cultivation. Besides, he had his own problems to worry about.

  He held up the tent peg, then started to reposition himself according to what the fragment was telling him. It was a single attack, so it was easy enough to move his feet into the proper position. Just wide enough, hunching over just a little bit. It didn't feel quite natural, but he presumed that was normal.

  It was harder to figure out where his hands would go. The entire time he'd been holding the tent peg so that its sharp side aimed upwards, the way he'd hold a sword. The memories that he had in his head told him that was wrong, though, and he had to hold it upside down so that its tip pointed downwards.

  Wu Hao tried it, but it felt awkward. So much for his first time practicing a martial art that was his and not Father's.

  Putting aside the feeling that he was doing everything wrong, Wu Hao tightened his grip on the tent peg and marshalled the little qi that had managed to trickle through the filter around his heart.

  Then he began to move the qi through his meridians the way the manual told him to. It took some wrangling, because it forced him to use power in ways that he wasn't used to, but finally on his third try and with dwindling qi he managed to form the loop. Control was going to be an issue for this technique, he could already feel. He wouldn't be given all this time during a fight.

  Even incomplete loops kept giving him an indescribable urge to move, though. His hands twitched, ready to execute the rest of the move, but he forced the impulse down.

  Finally, he felt ready. After a deep breath, he took another glance around him. The grass field was still empty, and he couldn't spy anyone moving in the darkness of the tents, either.

  "Rending Dagger Art," he whispered, and unleashed his qi together with the hand movement. "Void Rip."

  His hand tore through the air quickly in a wide swipe that left a thin line through the air, about as thick as a line of fine silk. It lingered there for the space of a single breath, already fraying at the sides.

  Carefully, he reached out with a single finger and touched the line carefully, not even flinching back at the pain. He held on until the last dregs of the move had faded the next moment.

  When he raised his finger to inspect it, he saw that a thin line had been scored into his flesh. If he'd pressed it harder, he thought that he might have broken the thread outright even if it'd lingered in the air much longer.

  He mentally consulted the memories again. In theory, if executed perfectly the move should have launched a razor-thin wave of qi at his target that would be sharp enough to cut into stone.

  It was clear that Wu Hao didn't have the qi for that. Or the control, either.

  Still, even this was promising. He stared down at the wound on his finger like a complete idiot, curling it into a fist and feeling a small stab of pain as he did so. That pain felt like the start of something.

  "Right," he whispered to himself. "Tomorrow, another battle. Time to see if I can make a difference."