Their procession trotted into town to shouts of exclamation and alarm. The village was organized chaos as men and women alike grabbed weapons, children, and horses. Outside, the flocks and herds were being driven back to the walls with a feverish pace. A veritable Mongol horde rode out to meet them.

  Cyrus was thankful for the chaos as it kept attention away from him.

  Their villager companion peeled away as they entered, riding off to meet the hunters, while Seojoon led them clockwise through the village.

  This was the first time Cyrus had seen the wider populace. Song had been quite efficient at keeping out of sight for the few days, so Cyrus took the opportunity to ogle. After all, most of the younger folk were doing so, watching wide-eyed as the grown ups went to war.

  The prototypical Changpo-ian was of what Cyrus would describe as Northern Chinese stock, with dark brownish-yellow skin, short black hair, and a stocky build. Song’s family stood out in this regard, with a slightly paler complexion and smoother features.

  Nearly all the villagers wore similar clothes to Song – a long woolen robe that Cyrus had heard referred to as a deel. It clasped over the right shoulder and was held tight at the waist with a long colored sash. Depending on the apparent wealth of the owner, it had various levels of gold or pearl accents along with stylized horse and goat patterns around the trim. The ladies’ deels were usually fancier and longer, with a bit of swish to them. The accessories were more varied; both sexes often wore round pointed hats with fur trim called toortsogs, while some women wore long fancy and illustrated vest-things over their deel.

  Dotted throughout the throng, Cyrus was also able to spot a few people with what Song had called Sign. A tentacle here, some glowing yellow eyes there; Changpo Village was a real merry band of misfits.

  Their little parade was ignored, but for some fingerpointing at both Cyrus and the grasswolf. Cyrus held back the urge to squirm. Song wouldn’t squirm. Song would bask in the attention. Heck, if he wasn’t worried about being mistaken for an Inner Demon, Cyrus would bask. Goodness knew he was used to it from winning tournaments. He made do for now with squaring his shoulders and holding his head up high.

  The village wasn’t that big, and they soon arrived at a tall white yurtwagon with a changpo flower emblazoned at the top. Seojoon and Wook dropped down from their horses and pulled off the grasswolf, then made their way into the yurt.

  Cyrus tried to follow, but was stopped by Juwon’s arm across his chest.

  Cyrus gave him a blank look, which Juwon returned with a grin, gesturing at the horses with a tick of his chin. “You’ve done enough, little brother. Let your seniors handle it from here. You take the horses back to the stables and get yourself patched up. There’ll be time for celebrations after the hunt.”

  Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “You’re just pushing the work onto me.”

  Juwon’s teeth flashed as he disappeared through the flap and into the tent.

  “Well bugger me,” Cyrus muttered, staring at the four horses. “Uh… giddyup?”

  —

  It worked. The other three horses trotted meekly behind Bongbong, who happily followed Cyrus through the village. Thankfully the Lee Family yurtwagon stood out, making it easy for Cyrus to find his way. One quick trip to the ‘stable’ – a collection of posts pounded into the ground – and he was home free.

  Not wanting to draw attention, Cyrus made his way to the same place Song had spent the greater part of the last week hiding out – the Lee Family training grounds. The entire compound was blessedly empty of the swaths of Lee’s that were usually present; they were all probably out responding to the alarm. Ah well, not his problem. Taking a seat on the smooth dirt, Cyrus got into lotus position and did his best to meditate.

  It didn’t work.

  After multiple failed attempts, he decided that Song just couldn’t come to the phone right now, so he was on his own.

  Bored, he rose to his feet and walked around the yard, examining everything with a curious eye.

  “Cool, cool,” he muttered, leafing through a collection of wood and steel weaponry sitting in barrels. There were swords, spears, katanas, daggers, bows, nagitanas, and various bits of wood and string and leather meant for repairs. Cyrus held back a desire to try one of the nagitanas out, it wouldn’t be very Song.

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  Instead, he grabbed a long bo-staff and twirled it around experimentally. He snapped it up and down, going through a smooth bojutsu kata. Then he closed his eyes, and allowed his arms to continue on their own, flowing through a series of motions that Cyrus didn’t recognize, but his body found familiar.

  “Huh…” Cyrus mused to himself, recognizing the Changpo staff arts that Song had used against the grasswolf. “And I used, what, Fox's Footwork earlier, and rode a horse without falling off. So he can run like me, and I can fight like him? Like muscle memory or something? Interesting.”

  If that was the case, a few shots with the bow from him could go a long way to helping Song’s technique. So Cyrus made his way over to the temporary target that Song had set up and examined it with a frown. He pulled a bow out of one of the barrels, strung it, then took a few shots. He was capable at fifteen paces, but struggled past there.

  He was still better than Song, though.

  “Well, darn. Sorry, kid. That’s the best I got.” Cyrus tapped his feet impatiently, and as he did a certain, terrible, horrible, brilliant idea took shape in his mind. That scary muscle mommy named An Iseul hadn’t specified that Song had to hit the target with a bow, had she? It’d just been implied.

  Cyrus turned back to the barrels full of weapons and materials.

  A half hour of sweat, bunged fingers, and lots of whittling later, Cyrus held a long staff with a fork at the end. It had a web of strings and a leather band hanging between the tines, looking like a cross between a sling-staff and a poor man’s lacrosse stick. Cyrus considered his handiwork with a mix of pride and horror.

  Ah well, nobody ever called me handy.

  Cyrus walked around the edge of the ring, selecting stones as he went. There was an art to choosing projectiles, and Cyrus took special care to ensure that every stone that went into his hip pouch was the perfect weight and shape. When he had a solid dozen, he made his way to stand at the fifty paces mark.

  “Hmm… just over fifty feet? That’s a long shot for a beginner, but not too bad for a pro – well, semi-pro. Let’s give this a go.”

  Cyrus put a stone in the leather strap and gave the staff a swing. It was a bit longer than the sticks he was used to, and the sling didn’t sit quite right, but it was a lacrosse stick!

  Sort of.

  “Here goes nothing.” Cyrus muttered, giving the contraption a test swing. Then he shifted to a one leg forward-one leg back stance, pointed the butt of the staff towards the target and took a deep breath. A moment later his body uncurled in a burst of motion, the stick whipping up and over as Cyrus unleashed his signature Crack Shot.

  Dust swirled, the staff bent and creaked, the leather strap snapped to extension, and the stone promptly smacked into the ground at his feet.

  While Cyrus flipped end over end.

  He stared at the sky for a moment, watching the pretty colours as the first pinks of sunset showed themselves. “Hot damn, that’s some power. This qi stuff is awesome.”

  Cyrus dusted himself off and stood, then grabbed another stone from his satchel and placed it in the leather strap. “Practice makes perfect!”

  He shot stone after stone as the sun slowly sunk beneath the horizon and the villagers of Changpo returned from their fruitless hunt. By the end, he was hitting the target eight times out of ten.

  His brothers found him there, asleep on the training ground bench, several variations of sling-staff scattered around him and a faint smile on his face. With matching grins they carried him to his yurt and laid him on his futon. Cyrus curled up under his blankets as Juwon patted him on the head. “You made the family proud today, Song. Sleep well.”

  Cyrus smiled faintly, and mumbled “You too, bro,” before passing into restful slumber.

  —

  The smell of roasting meat filled the Lee compound as Changpo village woke with its usual early bustle. Sounds of cheerful chatter and excited gossip were carried with the breeze as it wound its way through stalks of just-starting-to-wilt changpo flowers.

  Cyrus Park awoke, bleary eyed, to the wooden raftered ceiling of a yurt.

  He groaned, but it was completely ineffectual against the level of existential dread he was experiencing at this moment. He held his arms over his eyes to try and keep the light at bay. “Gahhh… What the hell, man.”

  A high pitched girl’s voice spoke brightly at his elbow. “Good Morning!”

  “SHIT!” Cyrus screamed, jumping to his feet on the bed, grabbing his blankets and holding them over his body like a shield.

  Song’s six year old cousin was squatting next to his bed with her arms around her knees. At Cyrus’s sudden motion she jumped to her feet and ran from the yurt, her voice carrying through the canvas like a rooster’s crow.

  “AUNTIE CHOHEE! SONG SWORE!”

  Cyrus collapsed back into the warm embrace of the futon with a groan, rubbing his hand over his face. His shoulders and head ached, and some jerk was jackhammering in his eardrums.

  He was still in Song’s body. Great. Cyrus desperately crossed his legs and tried to enter meditation, but he’d barely taken a single breath before the pounding of feet and the rustle of a tent flap being thrown open pulled him back out.

  “Brother Song!” Tae shouted, walking into the yurt. He grabbed the edge of the futon and flipped it, sending Cyrus and his blankets into the air and tumbling across the room. “Wake up! We’re having a breakfast feast! And you’re the man of the hour!”

  Cyrus dragged himself up from the floor, the sudden exposure to the chill morning air causing him to shiver. He’d only been a little brother for a couple hours, and he was already considering how best to enact bloody vengeance.

  So long as he survived an even more terrifying experience than fighting a horrible eldritch plant monster to the death.

  Breakfast with the in-laws.

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