Kind Young Master [Progression Fantasy - Cultivation]

Fushuai was allowed to rest until the sun reached the peak of the sky. His master did not wake him with a hoof, as Goshung would have. Instead, it was a gentle pulse of intent that caused his eyes to shoot open and his heart to jump into his throat. He rolled, the staff already in his hand, coming to his feet without understanding what had occurred. All he knew was that something was there with him, something terrible, and it meant his death.

His eyes focused on the unassuming figure of his master, a middle-aged itinerant with bags under his eyes and his hands folded behind his back. The sense of danger, of impending doom, did not lessen, even though he guessed its source.

Fushuai's mouth opened, then closed. His tongue was a dry lump against his teeth.

"From now on," Xiao Sheng said, "you will be training under this condition. Meditation, sparring, herbalism, all of it."

"What…" Fushuai managed to get out the word and let it drop. It was a useless question. He knew what this was. His master was letting him feel his killing intent, or some tiny fraction of it.

"Why?"

"You will face much worse than this when you meet the rogue. Until you are able to achieve qi manifestation, you won't be able to combat his intent with yours. So, you must learn to endure until this endurance has no more lessons to teach."

He steeled himself as best he could, focusing on the solidity of the staff in his hand. The feeling did not lessen, but he could push it aside as he did pain, or exhaustion, or any other weakness.

Xiao Sheng nodded his approval. "Good. The next step for you is fortifying your dantian. There are various methods to achieve this, but the most straightforward is to reinforce its structure with technique formations. It will accomplish two goals in one, and the rest of your time can be spent in acquainting yourself with your weapon. When I return, I expect both to be finished."

"Return?"

"Yes. The work of cultivation is best pursued in solitude. You have the sutra, and I will be leaving you a few tools to aid in your progression." He waved his hand, and a burlap sack appeared, overflowing with silverleaf. Two other, much smaller pouches, these of silk, dropped onto the tile beside it.

"Chew the silverleaf as much as you can stand. The blue purse contains a mid-grade restoration pill, the same as what I gave you to speed the expansion of your meridians. The red purse contains a Bursting Starlotus pill, which you should only use if you perceive your progress to be stalled. Do not take it away from the shrine, as it will require all of your attention to process."

It was a wealth of resources that would have once caused Fushuai to fall to his knees in awe. Even now, it seemed more than he deserved. In comparison to what had gone into the forging of his staff, however, it was the treasures of a local senior compared to the riches of an emperor.

"May I know where you are going?"

"You may not."

Fushuai suppressed a smile, that was as much an answer as he'd expected. His mind was already on the task he had been given and how best to accomplish it. Solitude was indeed the ideal condition for advancement. Some schools insisted that only "steel sharpened steel," and there was truth in that. Countless stories told of insight and breakthroughs occurring at the edge of an opponent's blade.

And yet, dramatic duels and climactic events were more about overcoming bottlenecks and flaws or advancing between stages than the standard for cultivation. The vast majority of a sacred artist's time was put to lonely pursuits and meditation.

He thanked his master and bid him farewell, and not long after, looked up in confusion when he realized the sharp edge of killing intent on the back of his neck was still there. It hadn't been his master's aura, so whose was it? Moving out into the clearing, he saw the culprit.

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A formation flag was planted at the peak of the roof. Red cloth marked with a single black slash. Its presence, aside from giving Fushuai a headache, would also keep beasts away. On the other hand, any cultivator with the will to defy it would be happy to steal the treasure for themselves.

Pushing the sense of dread to the back of his mind, he returned to contemplating the sutra. Though he'd already memorized the recitations of the other two techniques, eking the secrets out of the text was better accomplished with the original in hand.

—

Circle of Mist Domain

First Recitation

Flame draws the eye with illusion
The false promise of power
In truth, the only promise of flame
Is its end

Second Recitation

Flame draws the eye with illusion
Of grow and bite and spread
In truth, every flame that sparks
Weakens

Third Recitation

Ice calls to ice,
and cold to cold
Dark calls to dark,
and death only grows
Until there is nothing, nothing
Nothing

—

Actually utilizing a domain technique would likely be impossible before he reached qi manifestation. However, with what he had learned from interpreting Moon Step, he was able to begin formulating the shape of the technique as it would be inscribed in his dantian. Its purpose seemed to be to amplify Yin and stifle Yang within its area of effect around the cultivator. It would make him stronger and his opponents weaker, unless their skills mirrored his own.

All three techniques carried the same note on limitation. They were more difficult to use, or completely ineffective, in environments where the Yang aura was too strong. The Void Legacy path, or at least the small part of it that had been set down, required its practitioner to use foresight in seeking engagement. The artist's power was dramatically influenced by the chosen field of battle and even the time of day.

The second technique looked more promising in the short term.

—

Threads of Still Night Binding

First Recitation

Deeper than the ocean's depths
Darker than a moonless night
Silent as the stars

Second Recitation

What binds all light, and swims beneath
The notes between the notes of a song
A thread is woven, every birth
And stretched through all of time

—

This would make for a more compact spirit array, and he thought he would be able to use it immediately. Though its full capabilities would remain beyond him until he achieved the peak of qi refinement. That didn't mean he couldn't do something.

Leaving the domain inscription unfinished, he shifted his focus to the Threads of Still Night. It took him the rest of the day and well into the night, all the while battling with the sense of imminent danger produced by his master's formation flag. He chewed silverleaf until his jaw ached through the numbness and nausea threatened to further detract from his focus.

When he finished, the night was warm and still. Insects sang among the pines, but there was no wind to stir their branches. He could only spare a fraction of his attention to the environment; the rest was directed toward his dantian and the developing technique formation within it.

The inscription process was not so different from the way he bound his spiritual energy into coiled threads. Practice with one made the other more manageable, and when he began burning qi to fuel the new technique, he instantly knew that he had succeeded.

It was nothing like Moon Step.

Instead of perfecting his body, it created a strand of qi. Thinner than those that composed his cord, denser and darker. It began to wind in his dantian, and he directed it through his channels to his hand.

The strand, in and of itself, did nothing. It was a means to enact his intent on the world. He transferred it from his palm to his staff, still unsure of what to do with it once it was there, and lifted his arm.

The staff came with it, held only by the thread.

He spent the rest of the night experimenting. When he had more knowledge, he thought the technique would lead to a method of creating treasures of his own. The strands could be fixed into arrays, binding objects and opponents alike. For now, it was a useful trick.

The domain technique took another day and night to finish, with breaks for foraging and rest, such as could be found. The oppressive aura of the flag made true rest a distant dream, so he was half awake the morning when he sensed a presence approaching the clearing through a game trail.

Not his master or Goshung. Not a cultivator at all, unless they were an expert in disguising their spiritual signature. A mortal.

The man stepped from the treeline, making no attempt to hide himself. Then he reached the edge of the formation and fell to his knees, weeping openly.

Fushuai sighed. If a mortal traveled this deep into the mountains, there had to be a reason.

"Great master!" The words choked out. "Please. We are in need."