The dining hall felt unusually vast that morning, its high ceilings and long, polished tables stretching into shadowed corners. I sat beside my mother in silence, my gaze fixed on the simple bowl of congee cooling before me. Steam curled in the muted morning light that filtered through the latticed windows, its patterns breaking the dimness into scattered patches across the stone floor.

  There was a weight in the air—something dense and growing heavier by the second. I stiffened in my seat, instinct whispering of an approaching storm. The guards stationed by the doors shifted uneasily, though they tried to mask it behind stoic expressions.

  Then he arrived.

  A pressure, subtle at first, surged into the hall like a crashing tide. It pushed against my chest, stealing my breath for a heartbeat before I steeled myself against it. My grandfather stepped through the threshold, and the very space seemed to shrink around him.

  Zhang Jian. The name alone could silence a room. He was a mountain of a man—tall and broad-shouldered, his presence carrying the quiet violence of an unsheathed blade. His dark gray robe, embroidered with silver thread at the hem and cuffs, swayed with deliberate grace as he walked. A thick beard, streaked with silver like frost over stone, framed a face carved with deep lines of experience and resolve. His eyes, sharp and pale like winter steel, scanned the room once before settling on me.

  I resisted the childish urge to shrink beneath his gaze.

  Without a word, he moved to the head of the table. My mother and I rose respectfully; he gestured for us to sit with the barest flick of his fingers. We obeyed immediately.

  The meal continued, though the atmosphere was strangled. Each clink of chopsticks against porcelain rang out louder than necessary, a brittle reminder of the silence none of us dared to break. I barely tasted the food. The rich scents of cooked rice and stewed vegetables sat heavily in my nostrils, but my mouth was dry.

  Finally, Grandfather spoke, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of judgment.

  "You acted recklessly, accepting that scroll," he said, without preamble.

  My hands clenched into fists beneath the table. I had been bracing for this, but the words still stung, sharper than any blade.

  "Desperation," he continued, "is the coward's shortcut. It blinds the foolish and buries the weak."

  I lowered my gaze to my untouched bowl, throat tightening around a thousand unspoken words. I wanted to protest, to defend myself—but what defense was there? Hadn't I proven my foolishness?

  "You must understand," he said, voice hard as stone, "there are no easy paths for those who wish to stand at the summit."

  The meal dragged on, every moment more suffocating than the last.

  After what felt like an eternity, my mother excused herself, leaving Grandfather and me alone in the dim hall. Her absence only magnified the tension, as if the walls themselves leaned closer to listen.

  He remained silent for a long moment, staring at me with an intensity that seemed to peel away the layers of my spirit.

  "Why," he asked finally, "are you so desperate to walk a path you do not yet understand?"

  The question, simple yet brutal, struck deeper than any accusation. I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my ears. Images flashed through my mind— Xue's confident stride in her Azure Cloud Sect robes, the silent judgment of the family retainers, my own impotent struggles.

  "I—" My voice cracked. I swallowed again. "I don't want to be left behind."

  The admission tasted bitter on my tongue.

  Grandfather's expression remained unreadable, but something—a flicker of approval, perhaps—passed through his eyes.

  "Fear," he said, "can be a chain, or a blade. It is up to you to decide which."

  He leaned back slightly, his robe whispering against the chair.

  "Listen well," he continued. "There are disturbances swirling around you. Small now, but growing. You may not yet see them clearly, but the heavens have taken notice. Every step you take will carry weight beyond your imagining."

  I sat frozen, the words anchoring heavily in my mind. Some part of me had known—had felt—that the world was changing around me. That my choices were no longer mine alone.

  "As for your cultivation..." Grandfather's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "There is a way."

  My heart leapt, only to crash again as his tone darkened.

  "It is dangerous. A forbidden method—one that must remain hidden from the eyes of the clans and sects."

  He paused, letting the words sink in.

  "A secret operation could open your meridians. But it carries grave risk. Success will bring power. Failure will end your path before it truly begins."

  I drew a shaky breath, the enormity of it settling over me.

  "Before you are even permitted to attempt it," he added, "you must prove your worth. Rigorous training—body and mind. You will endure more training and discipline beyond anything you have known Yue."

  I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the weight of inevitability press down upon me.

  When I opened them again, Grandfather was watching me—measuring, testing.

  I bowed my head low. "I understand."

  The old man rose, the movement fluid and powerful despite his age. Without another word, he turned and left, his footsteps fading into the distance like distant thunder.

  I remained seated for a long while, staring at the remnants of breakfast now cold and forgotten. The misty light outside had brightened somewhat, but a chill lingered in the air.

  A storm was coming. And I had chosen to walk straight into it.

  The dining hall had quieted. Only the soft clink of porcelain and the faint whisper of servants clearing the table remained. I sat stiffly at my place, my fingers curling around the edge of my chair as I wrestled with the feeling that had been gnawing at me all morning — anticipation sharpened into something just shy of dread.

  Grandfather sat across from me, his broad shoulders casting a heavy shadow even in the soft light filtering through the high windows. His presence was a thing of iron and storm clouds — solid, immovable. His silver hair was tied back in a simple knot, emphasizing the sharpness of his features. Eyes like twin blades studied me, the faintest ghost of disappointment lingering in their depths. Or maybe I only imagined it.

  I straightened my back instinctively, trying to seem composed.

  Two weeks, I thought. Two weeks since Xue left. Two weeks since everything changed.

  Now he was here — and with him, the unspoken expectations that weighed heavier than any sword. Without preamble, Grandfather finally spoke, his voice like gravel dragged over stone. "You've been training, boy?"

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I managed a stiff nod. "Yes, Grandfather."

  A small grunt escaped him, neither approval nor dismissal. His gaze shifted briefly to my mother, who offered a polite, neutral smile before busying herself with her tea. This was between him and me now. Grandfather leaned back, folding his arms. "Good. Then you won't mind proving it." The words landed heavier than they should have. I masked my nerves as best I could, feeling the eyes of the nearby attendants sharpening in curiosity.

  He gestured lazily toward the doorway, where a cluster of guards stood at attention. "Pick one. Doesn't matter who. Even the weakest among them should be enough to test your mettle."

  A few of the guards stiffened at the remark, but none dared protest. It wasn't really an insult to them — it was a judgment passed on me. My heart hammered painfully in my chest. A match, here? Now? Against trained guards? I swallowed the anxiety rising in my throat and gave a small bow. "As you command."

  Inside, frustration sparked. Was he testing me, or humiliating me? No — no, it didn't matter. I would face it head-on. That's what Xue would do. That's what I had to do.

  I rose from the table and followed Grandfather's steady, deliberate steps out into the mist-veiled courtyard, leaving the warm safety of the hall behind.

  I couldn't help but feel a tightening in my chest as the words left my grandfather's lips. The silence stretched between us for a long moment. The suggestion hung in the air like an unspoken challenge, as though he were gauging my reaction, testing the depth of my resolve.

  "Train with one of the weakest guards?" I repeated quietly, my voice tinged with disbelief. My gaze drifted to the walls of the courtyard, where the weak sunlight filtered through the trees, casting long shadows that danced like fleeting ghosts. The idea of training with someone beneath my level, someone who couldn't possibly challenge me... it felt almost insulting. But I knew better than to voice my frustrations.

  Zhang Jian's steady gaze bore into me, his expression unreadable. I couldn't tell if he was being serious or simply testing my reaction, but one thing was clear: his words were more than just advice. They were a lesson—one he wanted me to learn, whether I liked it or not. His silent challenge made the air thick with unspoken expectations.

  "I'm not asking for an exhibition of strength, Yue," he finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "I want to see how you face adversity. How you deal with limitations. It's not about strength alone. It's about understanding yourself—your weaknesses and your limits. Sometimes, the strongest man is the one who knows when to hold back, when to push forward, and when to be patient."

  His words cut through the rising irritation in my chest, and I found myself pausing to digest them. The weight of his words settled heavily upon me, the realization that this wasn't about the guard's strength at all. This was about me. About understanding my own limits.

  The realization came like a quiet wave, washing over the frustration I had been nursing for weeks. My impatience, my hunger for power—it had clouded my thinking. I had been so focused on reaching higher, achieving more, that I had forgotten what cultivation was truly about.

  Zhang Jian seemed to sense my internal shift. His posture remained the same, relaxed but unwavering. He folded his hands behind his back, waiting for my response.

  I took a deep breath, my frustration ebbing away. For a moment, I closed my eyes, thinking about the guard—whoever they were—and the challenge this session would bring. There was no rush in my movements as I refocused. "Alright, Grandfather," I said, the words coming out with more conviction than I had anticipated. "I'll train with them."

  Zhang Jian's gaze softened, just the slightest flicker of approval in his eyes. I could tell that he hadn't expected an immediate response, much less one without hesitation. It felt strange, to be in agreement with him so quickly, but it also felt like the right decision. A challenge wasn't something to run from—it was an opportunity to grow.

  "Good," Zhang Jian said, his tone satisfied. "Meet me in the courtyard in twenty minutes. We'll watch the first round."

  Before I could respond, he turned and walked away, his steps slow and deliberate, his figure a towering presence against the backdrop of the sprawling estate. I stood there for a moment, watching his retreating form, trying to calm the growing anticipation in my chest.

  _________________________________

  The estate was quieter than usual in the morning light. My mind raced, and yet, there was a strange sense of clarity that came over me as I prepared for what lay ahead. The path to cultivation was not just about mastering the body. It was also about mastering the mind, overcoming distractions, and acknowledging when to pause and reflect.

  In the distance, I could already hear the faint shuffle of the guards as they prepared for their duties, though the one I would face remained unknown. Would they be eager to spar? Would they hold back, thinking me too young or too inexperienced? Or perhaps, they would surprise me.

  I let out a long, slow breath and began to walk towards the courtyard, my sword swaying at my side. This would be a lesson—both in combat and in myself.

  The courtyard buzzed faintly with tension as Zhang Jian waved his hand, summoning one of the nearby guards. I watched as a man in his late twenties approached, his steps light but disciplined.

  He stopped a few paces from us and bowed deeply.

  "State your name," my grandfather ordered, his voice low and commanding.

  The guard straightened immediately. "Liang Chen, reporting as ordered, Elder Zhang."

  I studied him as he stood there — grey robes with navy trim marking him as one of the estate's guards. His build was wiry, not imposing, but there was a taut readiness to him, like a bowstring pulled just short of release. His face was composed, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

  Not the kind of man you could afford to underestimate.

  "Good," Zhang Jian said with a small nod. He turned slightly toward me. "You'll be sparring with my grandson. No Qi techniques, Liang Chen. Only martial skill."

  Liang Chen bowed again, this time to me. "I will give it my utmost." I tightened my grip on the wooden sword I had borrowed earlier, feeling the worn, familiar texture against my palm. A pulse of nervous energy beat through me, but I forced it down. This was a test — not just of strength, but of focus.

  The courtyard air felt thick, heavy with the remnants of the morning mist. Above, the sky hung overcast and brooding, the stones beneath our feet still slick with the earlier rain.

  Zhang Jian's voice cut cleanly through the quiet. "Begin."

  Liang Chen moved first — swift but measured. His approach was not reckless; he tested the space between us, gauging my reactions. I met his opening strike with a clean parry, the clash of wood on wood sharp in the damp air.

  The force of it traveled up my arms, rattling my bones slightly. He was stronger than he looked.

  We circled each other, the world narrowing until it was just the two of us, steps echoing faintly against the stone. Liang Chen's movements were refined, economical — a man who knew his limits and his strengths.

  I tried to feel him out, probing with quick jabs, but he read them easily, brushing them aside like leaves on the wind.

  He's patient. He's trying to wear me down.

  My breath came evenly as I adjusted my stance, recalling the forms drilled into me during endless lonely nights.

  Liang Chen shifted suddenly, feinting low before driving a hard strike toward my ribs. I twisted away just in time, the wooden blade grazing my side.

  Close. Too close.

  My heart hammered against my ribs, but I refused to let it show. Around us, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath.

  I counterattacked — not blindly, but with intent, aiming to disrupt his rhythm. The wooden swords clashed again, harder this time.

  Sweat beaded at my brow despite the chill.

  I wasn't just fighting Liang Chen. I was fighting my own impatience.

  My own doubts.

  I tightened my grip, exhaling slowly. Stay calm. Stay sharp.

  The fight wasn't over yet.

  The courtyard seemed to shrink as Liang Chen advanced, his strikes sharper, faster. Each blow forced me backward, the wooden swords clashing with muted thuds that echoed off the stone walls. I gritted my teeth, feeling the strain in my wrists as I parried again and again.

  If only I could accumulate Qi, I thought bitterly, angling my blade to catch another heavy swing. If I had even touched the threshold of true cultivation... this would feel so different.

  My movements, while honed by training, felt dull compared to what I imagined Qi could offer. Qi wasn't just power — it was lightness, sharpness, an invisible current that made masters dance across the battlefield with lethal grace.

  And my way of sensing it… it was never subtle.

  I didn't perceive Qi the way others described — like the flow of a gentle river or the flicker of a candle. No, for me, sensing strong Qi felt like stepping into a beast's hunting ground, every instinct screaming at me to be careful, to tread lightly or be devoured. The presence of powerful cultivators loomed in my mind like towering shadows, impossible to ignore.

  Liang Chen wasn't overwhelmingly strong, but there was a weight to him — a faint tension beneath his calm exterior that told me he was holding back. Is he restraining himself? The thought gnawed at me. Maybe he doesn't want to shame me in front of Grandfather.

  The realization burned worse than any strike. I clenched the hilt tighter and forced my breathing to steady. If he was going easy, I would make him regret it.

  I shifted back a little bit, the Zhang Family's Flowing River form — a style meant to turn an opponent's force against them, smooth as water slipping around a stone.

  Liang Chen struck again, a powerful overhead swing meant to break my guard. I read it as it came, saw the subtle shift in his shoulders before the blow even fell. My body moved before a thought could catch up — I stepped aside, feeling the brush of displaced air against my cheek, and my sword snapped up in a clean arc.

  There was a sharp clatter as Liang Chen's wooden blade was knocked clean from his grasp, tumbling to the stones with a hollow echo.

  The courtyard fell into stillness.

  I stood there, heart pounding in my chest, my sword lowered but still firm in my grip. Across from me, Liang Chen straightened and gave a low, respectful nod — no resentment, no anger, only quiet acknowledgment. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward Grandfather.

  Zhang Jian's arms were crossed, his face stern as ever, but after a long, heavy moment, he inclined his head by the slightest margin. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. But coming from him, it was a roar of approval louder than any cheer.

  A knot inside me — one I hadn't even realized I was carrying — began to loosen.