Of Hunters and Immortals

Apparently, reaching the third stage was a bigger deal than Jiang had thought.

He'd been happy with himself, of course, but it's not like it made that much of a difference, right? He was a little stronger and faster than before – much like he'd been after breaking through to the second stage – but beyond that, nothing was different.

It wasn't like he had magically learned a bunch of techniques and turned into an amazing fighter, either. In fact, the news on that front was worse than ever. He'd scoured the entire library as best he could, and found nothing even resembling a technique for someone with shadow-aligned Qi. Granted, there were sections he wasn't allowed to enter, but the texts in those areas were aimed at higher-level cultivators anyway.

Even if they did have some shadow-aspected techniques, he certainly wouldn't be able to use them.

Jiang had meant to ask Elder Lu about it, but as soon as he'd revealed his advancement, that had gone out of the window.

Again, not that he knew why. Over the last couple of weeks he'd learned that while he was technically able to join the Sect at the first stage like he had, it was highly irregular, and most aspirants waited until they were at the second or third stage before even bothering to apply.

Which meant that he was only now at the base level an Azure Sky Sect cultivator was supposed to be.

Jiang didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Sure, he'd been a little proud of himself. He'd been working hard and kept up with his cultivation even while dealing with everything else. Breaking through to the third stage felt like confirmation he wasn't completely screwing things up. That was good. But the way Elder Lu had reacted…

It was like he'd grown a second head.

The man had spent the next hour hammering him with questions – how had he trained, where had he cultivated, what had he felt at the moment of breakthrough, had there been any signs of inner resistance or spiritual turbulence, had he encountered unusual phenomena in his meridians, and so on. Jiang hadn't even understood half the questions. At one point, Elder Lu had pulled out a scroll and made notes while muttering to himself. The only break Jiang got was when the tea ran out, and the man barked orders for a servant to bring more.

He hadn't even gotten a chance to ask about shadow techniques. Every time he'd tried to steer the conversation that way, Elder Lu had waved him off with some variation of "We'll come back to that," or "More important to understand the fundamentals." Eventually, Jiang had just stopped trying. It wasn't like he'd ever expected a straight answer from a cultivator anyway.

And it wasn't like he could ask anyone else, considering the only real interaction he got with the other disciples was when they were challenging him to endless duels.

Still, Elder Lu's interrogation eventually came to an end, and now he was walking back toward his quarters, his shoulders tight and jaw set. The sun was low, early afternoon light filtering through the high courtyard walls, painting long shadows across the stone.

He'd half-expected Elder Lu to send someone to 'escort' him back – some of the questions the man had asked were a little concerning, to be honest – but apparently whatever mysterious conclusions he'd come to about Jiang's progress were enough to let him walk alone.

It would have been a nice change of pace, except he spotted the waiting disciple as soon as he turned onto the outer walk leading to his dorm.

Jiang sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His body still ached faintly from the last match – that one had ended with a bad fall and a twisted ankle – and he'd been hoping to actually get a full night's rest for once.

No such luck.

The other disciple pushed off the wall as Jiang approached, straightening his sleeves with a slow, deliberate motion.

"Outer Disciple Ji—"

"Yeah, whatever, let's just go and get this over with."

— — —

The training ground his latest challenger led him to wasn't one of the more popular ones, which suited him just fine. Flat dirt, ringed by crooked stones and shaded on one side by half-dead trees.

A couple of outer disciples were sparring off to one side, their movements lazy and unrefined, probably working through drills assigned by their instructors. One or two others loitered nearby, stretching or talking or just killing time. None of them looked interested in the approaching duel.

Jiang stepped into the clearing without ceremony, rolling his shoulders and kicking a loose stone out of his path. His challenger followed a few paces behind, pausing only to tie back his hair and crack his knuckles in what was probably meant to be an intimidating gesture.

Jiang ignored it. He moved to the centre of the space and scanned for any obvious hazards – no broken ground, no puddles, no hidden rocks. Good thing, too – most of his worst injuries actually hadn't been directly from other cultivators, who usually pulled their blow enough to avoid breaking bone.

His challenger started spouting off the usual stuff about how this duel was to 'regain his honour' after Jiang insulted it, or how Jiang was a 'stain on the Sect's honour', or whatever. Honestly, he'd heard so many variations that they were all starting to run together. Why couldn't they just say 'I want to beat you up'?

At least that would have been honest.

Finally, the other disciple finished whatever self-important declaration he was making, raised one hand in the formal signal, then dropped it without waiting.

Jiang didn't brace. He stepped back.

The other boy surged forward, fast and aggressive. Lead with a low sweep aimed at Jiang's legs – something practised, meant to destabilise. Jiang twisted sideways, let the blow skim wide, stumbled back two more paces and kept moving.

He'd learned that giving ground like he did wasn't respected. Cultivators were supposed to meet attacks head-on. Prove strength. Show resolve.

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Jiang's only resolve was not to get flattened.

The other disciple pressed forward again, strikes coming hard and fast. Jiang blocked one with the flat of his forearm and winced at the impact. Slipped past another. Duck, roll, sidestep.

He was breathing hard within thirty seconds. Even with the boost from his breakthrough, he wasn't some battle-hardened expert. He'd fought a lot of duels, but they were all survival matches. Nothing about this felt elegant. It was just another fistfight with extra steps.

A palm strike caught him in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him. He went down on one knee, scrambled away before the follow-up could land. Dirt smeared across his robes. He didn't stop moving.

His opponent growled in frustration and came in faster now, sloppier. Tried to overwhelm him with force. Jiang ducked under one heavy swing and came up with an elbow to the gut. It landed softly but shifted the momentum. He kicked out, low, catching the man's shin.

Didn't drop him, but he staggered.

Jiang pounced on the space. Two sharp strikes – one to the side of the jaw, the other to the collarbone. Nothing heavy. Just enough to make the man flinch again.

Then the tide shifted.

His challenger came back with a roar, full of rage now. No more careful technique – wild swings, heavy feet pounding the dirt. Jiang took a hit to the shoulder, hissed, twisted and nearly fell again, caught himself on one hand and rolled away.

Back on his feet, panting.

The next charge came with no pretence. Jiang ducked under a wild haymaker, stepped inside, and slammed a knee up into the man's thigh. Off-balance. Close range. Not ideal for either of them.

They grappled.

No clean strikes. Just flailing limbs and jostling weight. Jiang grabbed the man's sleeve, yanked forward, and drove his head into the other's chest. He caught a blow to the back for it but didn't stop.

They went down in a heap.

Jiang landed hard, shoulder-first, but scrambled fast enough to end up on top. He threw two wild punches. The first missed. The second cracked his opponent across the cheek. Not clean. Not heavy. But it hit.

A beat passed. Breathing ragged. Both of them still tangled on the ground.

The older disciple sucked in air through his teeth. "I yield," he grunted.

Jiang didn't move.

"I said I yield," the man snapped, louder.

Jiang rocked back onto his haunches and stood slowly, blinking sweat out of his eyes. Every part of him ached. His shoulder was going to bruise. His knuckles stung. Something sharp jabbed under one of his ribs when he twisted.

He looked around.

Nobody was clapping. No one was cheering. One of the bystanders gave a low whistle. Another snorted and turned away.

Jiang exhaled, long and slow. It might not have been pretty, and it might have taken him three weeks, a couple of dozen losses, and a lucky shot, but he'd finally won his first duel.

He wasn't going to lie, it felt amazing.

— — —

Jiang sat on the edge of his cot, shirt half-off, the fabric bunched around his elbows as he worked the knot out of his shoulder. The joint popped once, painfully. He grunted. His knuckles were split again – the skin along one knuckle split wide enough to sting, but not deep enough to bother wrapping. His ribs were tender. His left shin had a bruise forming the size of a plum.

None of it felt bad.

He rolled his wrist, flexed his fingers, and checked for swelling. Nothing worse than usual. Less, even. The ache in his bones was the kind you got after a good day's work – not the kind that came from getting rag-dolled across a courtyard. For once, the pain meant something.

Victory.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy it.

First win. Took long enough.

He didn't smile – wasn't in the habit – but the corners of his mouth twitched, just slightly. He leaned back, braced his weight on his palms, and stared at the ceiling.

Admittedly, it hadn't been much of a win. The fight – such as it was – had essentially been two idiots swinging at each other until one of them went down. No clean technique. No brilliant footwork. Half luck, half stubbornness.

Just because he'd won that one fight didn't mean he'd win the next – hell, it didn't even mean he'd win the next fight against the same guy. That disciple hadn't been the weakest guy Jiang had fought, but he hadn't been too far off, either. Besides, the rest would be a little more cautious now.

He pushed up off the bed and limped across the room to the basin, splashing water over his face and neck. It was cold enough to sting, but he ignored the slight pain in favour of scrubbing the sweat off, then grabbed a towel and padded his skin dry, careful around the tender spots.

The face in the water didn't look all that different. Still had the same tired eyes, the same scar over his right brow from a hunting trip that went bad. Sure, his hair and eyes were darker now – the effects from igniting his dantian using the giant feather hadn't faded yet, and despite Elder Lu saying that there was a chance his features may revert as he advanced further, Jiang somehow knew they never would.

It didn't really bother him much. His mother had darker hair as well, so it wasn't like he was unrecognisable, and to be honest, he kind of liked the darker colouration anyway.

He wondered what they'd think of him now.

His mother would probably scold him. Call him reckless, maybe stupid. Then patch him up anyway. Xiaoyu… she might actually think it was cool. He could imagine her eyes going wide, demanding to know if he'd discovered some secret technique or hidden sword move. She'd always loved the stories of the cultivators far more than he had.

Xiaoyu would have loved it here, being a cultivator, while he couldn't really see it as anything other than a means to an end.

How ironic.

He looked away from the basin, dried his hands, and moved back to the cot. Sat again, slower this time.

The victory hadn't changed anything. Not really. The bandits were still out there. His family was still missing. He was still just a boy pretending to be a cultivator, swinging fists and ducking blades.

He needed more.

If today proved anything, it was that raw effort would only take him so far. He'd won, but it wasn't clean. It wasn't controlled. And it certainly wasn't the kind of fight that could stand up to Gao Leng or the men who followed him.

A proper technique. That was the next step.

He needed something shadow-aspected. It wasn't news – he'd been looking for the last week or so, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that he wasn't going to find what he was looking for in the Sect halls. Whether it was just that a shadow alignment was rare enough that they didn't have the techniques on hand or if there was something more to it, he didn't know.

It didn't really change anything either. At the end of the day, if the Sect didn't have anything… he would have to look elsewhere.

Except that he had no idea what 'elsewhere' meant. It wasn't like he'd be able to find a technique scroll for sale at any random merchant's stall.

The sound was soft—barely a whisper against the wind—but Jiang's head snapped up before he was even conscious of reacting. A faint rustle of feathers, a shift in air pressure. The window, still cracked from earlier, creaked slightly on its hinges as the raven landed on the sill.

It tilted its head, beady black eyes catching the last of the light. Jiang narrowed his eyes. His Qi sense stretched toward it, careful and probing.

Blank. As always. A hole in the world, like his awareness slid around it rather than through.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and studied it closer.

Every cultivator he'd ever seen relied on technique. Internal or external, it didn't matter—they didn't just throw punches and hope for the best. Qi shaped into forms, cycles, bursts of power. Movement paired with intent. The whole point of cultivation was to do more with less.

But that wasn't necessarily limited to cultivators, was it?

He'd heard stories of Spirit Beasts using Qi – everyone had, that was what made them Spirit Beasts in the first place. When a fox burst into flame or a tiger called thunder, that wasn't random. It was instinctual, maybe, but still a form of cultivation. They didn't learn it from scrolls. They felt it, honed it, used it. So what was the difference between that and what he was trying to do?

Qi was still Qi. Whether it came from a beast or a man.

It might be stupid – there was so much he didn't know about Qi, Cultivators, Spirit Beasts… the list went on.

But he'd never let that stop him before. His recklessness – and the Spirit Beast feather he'd found – had gotten him into the Sect in the first place. It might not take him any further, but it was at least worth a shot.

Jiang exhaled, sharp through his nose. He wasn't stupid – not entirely, at least. He knew full well that the raven was suspicious. It was too perfect. A little too timely. But then again, it always had been. He'd stopped believing in coincidences after the second time it showed up. Whether it was being helpful out of interest, pity, or some other motive, he didn't know. Didn't matter.

Useful was useful.

He sat up straighter, gaze steady. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's see if you've got anything worth showing."

The raven didn't blink. Didn't move.

But it didn't leave.