Kind Young Master [Progression Fantasy - Cultivation]

Morning spilled gold over a jagged ridgeline as they crested the final rise.

The climb had been steep and wordless. Now, with the wind tugging at their tunics and the scent of pine sap thick in the air, their destination revealed itself at last: a clearing carved into the mountain's folded shoulder. There, cradled in shade and bramble, stood the shrine.

Calling it a shrine might have been generous. Whatever sanctity it once held had long since been devoured by time. There were no walls. Only a wide landing of cracked stone steps, half-swallowed by creeping roots and the slow appetite of the earth. Weather-stained columns stood in uneven intervals, holding aloft a peaked roof spotted by missing tiles. Beneath it, in the center of the open chamber, sat a statue so eroded by wind and rain that its original form had become a mystery. Once, perhaps, it had been a figure of reverence. Now it was little more than a mound of lichen-cloaked stone with a thick neck and no head.

Xiao Sheng stepped lightly onto the shrine's worn threshold, his hands folded behind his back, and looked around as though inspecting a training hall rather than a ruin choked with moss.

"This will be our home," he said at last. "At least for the first leg of your discipleship."

After setting his stones at the base of the steps, Fushuai moved past his master. The air beneath the roof was oddly fragrant, almost a perfume, though there were no flowers he could see. Dust rose with every step, but there were no insects in sight.

He came to stand before the statue. Where once there must have been a head was just a blank swell of stone and a suggestion of shoulders beneath a ragged mantle of moss. Something about its posture, slightly bowed, suggested either prayer or defeat.

When he reached out and touched its shoulder, lichen crumbled beneath his fingers. Whatever god had once stood here had long since stopped listening.

His master declared that they would have a day of rest before his discipleship began in earnest. Aside from preparing the meal, nothing was required of Fushuai, and he took full advantage of the break. He washed himself and his tunic in a stream they had passed on the way up, and rested both his mind and body. He was even provided with a thin blanket, a luxury unheard of since the journey began.

He woke on his own, shivering, as moonlight lanced his face through the gap left by one of the missing tiles. Expecting to hear the command to rise and walk, instead, he heard only the rumbling snores of a demon-wolf nearby. Placing one arm behind his head as a pillow, he closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him back under.

In sleep, his body remembered what his pride refused to name. He dreamed of warmth, home, and real food. A lacquered table, black as onyx. Steam rising from a delicate white bowl. The glisten of fat over braised duck, and the honeyed shimmer of candied lotus root. A servant bowed low beside him, wearing his face, pouring blood into a cup of jade. His stomach clenched, even in the dream.

At first light, a hoof greeted his ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, though the Asura certainly could have broken every bone in his body if he chose, but with enough force to announce the start of something unpleasant. He woke with a grunt and a mouth full of mountain chill. His blanket was stiff with icy dew.

Goshung jerked his chin toward the forest beyond the shrine, then turned and began walking. Fushuai scrambled after him.

Training, it seemed, would not begin with forms or philosophy. No graceful stances or slow, meditative breathing. Mud and thorns instead, and the aching emptiness of a stomach that remembered rich meals. They descended into the forest below. Vines dragged at the ankles. Ferns uncurled in dense, shadowed thickets. Birds called from somewhere above the canopy, sharp and unfamiliar.

Goshung did not slow for any of it.

His casual, half-feral gait mocked every one of Fushuai's stumbles as he hurried to keep pace. Twice he slipped on loose detritus, barely staying upright. Once, a root caught his foot and sent him sprawling into a patch of stinging nettle. The Asura said nothing, though he did wait for him, arms crossed, until he had hauled himself up again. The root had moved. He was certain of it.

The first lesson came when they reached a cluster of low brush with broad leaves and thick stems.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Goshung crouched and snapped one off. "You can eat this," he said. Then, without looking up, "Only this. If you grab its cousin with red veins, I'll let it kill you."

He tossed it aside before Fushuai had a chance to fix the shape in his memory, and went loping off a heartbeat later. From there, the day unfolded as a catalog of unfamiliar lessons.

Fushuai was shown where to look for kindling in a forest still weeping from the last storm; beneath overhangs, inside hollow trunks, in the tangled thatch of old squirrel nests. He was told how to twist reeds into snare wire, how to spot the broken pattern of rabbit tracks, how to look not for animals, but for what they disturbed: turned earth, claw marks, and stripped bark.

These were things he had read about, recreationally, in between what he had once thought of as more productive study. It had never been his dream to be a wandering cultivator, and a noble son, even one so unloved as he was, rarely thought about the necessities of survival.

Goshung's teaching was hands-on. Occasionally, that meant a shove into place. More often, it meant being left behind to struggle until he either got it right or gave up. He tried to ask questions, and the result was unrewarding.

"Shut up and watch."

Or.

"Listen to the forest." Which was equally helpful.

At one point, Goshung froze and lifted a hand. Fushuai obeyed instinctively, though he could hear nothing beyond the usual rustling of wind and the distant cry of birds.

The Asura cocked his head. "That one's a liar."

He crouched, placing his palm to the soil as if feeling for something just beneath the surface. "Don't just hear the sound," he said. "Feel where it comes from." His voice dropped to a murmur. "That one wants you to look west while it comes from the east."

He stood again and glared at Fushuai. "Every sound has intent. You have to learn which ones want you dead."

"Are you talking about the birdsong?"

"Do you need to be told everything? Listen to the forest."

There were no lectures, and correction, when it came, was ungentle. When Fushuai tripped a second time, Goshung didn't so much as glance back. He was certain now that at least some of the trees in this wood were aware, active, and hostile. The offending root slithered back into the earth after the deed was done.

Shortly after midday, the sun vanished behind the peaks, and the forest was a maze of shadows. Somewhere far above, a hawk cried out, sharp and brief, and he had to wonder if it was really a hawk or some lying beast as Goshung had warned.

The Asura stopped at the edge of a shallow ravine where animal tracks, narrow and three-toed, crisscrossed a patch of churned mud. He motioned toward the ground with one hand.

"Your turn."

Fushuai blinked. "My—?"

"Snare. You've seen me do it twice. Have you forgotten already?"

He dropped a coil of fraying plant fibers into Fushuai's hands and stepped back, molten veins shimmering on his coal-black arms.

He had the shape of the trap in mind. A noose, a bent sapling, a trigger stick. He selected each piece with exaggerated care, as if diligence could compensate for ignorance. He could tie a knot well enough, this wasn't so difficult.

The finished snare looked, to his eye, not entirely unlike the one he had seen earlier. Cruder. A little exposed, but functional.

The Asura tore the sapling free with a twist of his wrist and hurled the entire contraption into the ravine.

"Set in the open. Knot's wrong. No bait."

Fushuai opened his mouth, then closed it. Where was he supposed to have gotten bait?

"Do it again."

Lunch came without ceremony.

Goshung found a clutch of narrow-leaved stalks growing near the streambed and pulled one free, snapping off the root with a twitch of his fingers. He bit into it, chewing with exaggeration, glaring at his pupil.

Fushuai followed suit. The root was bitter and stringy, caked with dirt he could not entirely scrape free. The fibers clung to his teeth.

He grimaced.

"You don't have to like it," Goshung said, still glaring at him. "You have to not die."

They ate the rest in silence.

The afternoon arrived with a hundred object lessons, chastisements, and growls. He thought he would be able to recognize about half the edible roots and leaves he had been shown. Unfortunately, at least two of them were poisonous if not boiled, and he had no idea which. Goshung could perfectly mimic a seemingly endless variety of bird and beast calls, and demanded Fushuai identify each of them. Trials of navigation, camouflage, and tracking were met with various degrees of unsatisfactory performance.

In what way any of this could make him a disciple worthy of Xiao Sheng, he had no idea, and by the time they returned to the shrine, night had swallowed the mountain whole.

The stars were veiled behind thick clouds, and not even smudges of light remained. The forest behind them whispered in low, wet tones; branches settling, animals stirring. Every sound felt ominous to Fushuai, he had the sense that the forest viewed him as an intruder.

Still, he did not feel nearly as tired as he had during the days of travel. His joints did not ache, and his limbs felt as light as the breeze, unburdened by stones. Those he had brought with them were stacked neatly at the base of the stairs, and there he hoped they would remain.

Xiao Sheng sat facing the headless statue, a thin stick of incense burning in a shallow dish before him. The smoke rose in slow spirals, untouched by wind.

"Did the mountain teach you?" He asked.

"I believe it is trying," Fushuai said, settling on his knees beside his master. "I am too dense a pupil."

He adopted the prescribed breathing method and focused on his cycling.

In.

Pause.

Out.

Goshung interrupted his meditation well before he could reach enlightenment.

"Why in the nine hells spiral aren't you making dinner?"

Fushuai restrained a sigh, and stood.