Varian soon arrived at the training hall, panting, the sharp tang of sweat hanging heavy in the air. The servant disciple quarters were quite expansive, so even at a steady pace, it had taken him several minutes to get there.

  He surveyed the training hall, a place he’d grown increasingly familiar with in recent days. Straw dummies stood in varying states of damage and disrepair. Wooden weapons lay haphazardly scattered across the floor, their arrangement barely resembling order. Varian grinned to himself: If my body grows stronger, perhaps my headaches won’t trouble me as much.

  Varian’s eyes swept over the scattered wooden weapons, searching for one in particular. There. He strode to the pile and retrieved his weapon of choice—a long staff. Running his hands over its polished surface, he felt the smooth wood glide beneath his fingertips, the familiar weight resting comfortably in his grasp.

  Arthur always mocked Varian for choosing the staff, but Varian saw it as a weapon of both elegance and effectiveness. It was his old man who first recommended it. At the time, Varian had been far more enthralled by the sword—or perhaps the saber—but eventually, he heeded his foster father’s advice.

  'Varian,' the old man had said, 'the stories may regale you with tales of mighty swordsmen and women, cultivators capable of splitting mountains with a single swing of their sword. But that’s because it sounds grand. True strength lies in simplicity—a weapon that’s easy to pick up, yet difficult to master. I’ve always favored the long staff myself.'

  Varian had been skeptical, even disbelieving, until the day his foster father showed him firsthand just how formidable a staff could be.

  He shook his head, clearing away the distracting thoughts. He’d see the old man soon enough; no need to get lost in memories now.

  Varian selected one of the three less battered dummies and began practicing his basic staff forms. The sect referred to them as the Foundational Swallow Sweeping Strikes. To Varian, they were just basic staff maneuvers—though he’d never say that aloud. Supposedly, the true strength of Martial Skills could only be fully realized by Qi wielders, cultivators.

  He pushed aside those needless thoughts. Slowly, deeply, he breathed in. Left hand in position, right hand just above it with only a slight gap. Varian began spinning the staff, easing his wrists into motion. Gradually, he picked up speed, feeling his body relax as his wrists loosened. It was a classic warm-up, one his foster father had drilled into him.

  The old man would always insist, ‘You may feel young and spry now, but the vicissitudes of time catch up to us all. Humor this old man, won’t you?’

  Fully warmed up, Varian shifted into a sturdier stance, his feet firmly planted on the ground. Tightening his grip on the staff, he lifted it high before bringing it down on the dummy with force. From the vertical chop, he flowed into a low sweep, the staff angling toward where a person’s knees would be. The satisfying thunk of wood against straw echoed in the hall.

  Stepping back, Varian thrust the staff into the dummy’s chest—once, then twice. As he pulled back from the second thrust, he used the momentum to deliver a sharp horizontal strike to the dummy’s neck.

  Varian paused to catch his breath before repeating the maneuver a handful of times. With each repetition, he made subtle adjustments: tightening his stance during a chop, adding more force to the low sweep. Not every change was an improvement, but after enough repetitions, he could feel a faint difference between his first and last set, if just barely.

  He took a moment to collect his breath once more, sitting on the solid wooden floor. The dummy was in worse shape than before, but Varian knew that once winter passed, the Outer Sect would send someone to install new dummies, and the servants would replace the old weapons with fresh ones.

  As Varian sat there, he soon heard faint voices approaching, accompanied by the sound of footsteps on the wooden floor. A scowl crossed his face as he recognized the voices, knowing exactly who was coming.

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  “If it isn’t the custodian’s pampered sick dog. Shouldn’t you be nursing your headache or something?” Lucas sneered at Varian.

  “And yet, for all your bluster, you don’t feel confident showing up without your goon?” Varian shot back mockingly, eyes narrowing as he stared at the hulking teenager standing beside Lucas.

  “I’m not a goon,” Rufus grumbled, his voice deep and heavy. “Lucas and I are friends, and it’d do you some good to mind your tongue.”

  Lucas was a fair-skinned young man with long blonde hair that waved behind him as he moved. The reason for their enmity was simple. Lucas disliked Varian for who he was, and he made sure to show it—beating him in every spar back when Varian’s body was frailer. But with his aches now less frequent, Varian could finally train properly. And if nothing else, he was diligent. Soon, their spars were no longer one-sided, and eventually, Varian even managed to win one.

  Lucas, cowardly as he was, stopped accepting Varian's sparring attempts the moment he'd lost even one. Rufus, on the other hand, had a frame reminiscent of a bear, a bald head, and a mean scowl. He was the strongest servant disciple in their batch, the only one capable of beating William in sparring. The two of them always went at it whenever they fought.

  “Doesn’t Lucas only ever bring you along when he wants you to intimidate someone?” Varian spat venomously. He knew Rufus was being used, yet it seemed Rufus would remain as recalcitrant as ever.

  “I dare you to say that again, Varian,” Rufus grunted, shutting down the conversation.

  Varian knew pursuing it further would be pointless. Instead, he turned back to Lucas and asked, “So what is it you want, exactly, Lucas?”

  Lucas stared at Varian intently, as though weighing something in his mind. “You know, I was wondering if you’d like to spar tonight,” he said, his calm tone grating on Varian’s nerves.

  Varian squinted at him, sensing there was more to this than a simple challenge. Why would Lucas, after avoiding him for two years, suddenly want to spar? Tentatively, Varian accepted, ready to face whatever challenge Lucas might have in store.

  “Sure, Lucas. Is there anything else, or would you mind if I left now?” Varian said, his tone carefully measured.

  Lucas shook his head, and Varian took that as his cue to leave. His good mood had soured, his mind swimming with thoughts of what exactly Lucas had planned for him.

  Varian tried to shake off those thoughts, but they lingered, following him well past the training hall.

  To cool his mind and temper, Varian decided to head back to the creek. The urge to wash the sweat from his body was reason enough, but the quiet water would help him find peace again.

  With a steady breath, Varian pushed past the heavy oaken doors once more, the cool air filling his lungs.

  Varian took his time, the fatigue from his lightheadedness absent this time. He appreciated the nature around him—the grand trees standing tall like silent sentinels, their trunks as straight as rods. Bushes and shrubs swayed with the wind, their movement almost hypnotic.

  What was notably absent, however, was the presence of animals. Of course, with winter approaching, most mundane creatures would be preparing for the cold. Only spirit beasts would dare defy nature’s call for rest—but there would be no spirit beasts here. The sect saw to that.

  Upon arriving at the creek, Varian prepared to wash himself once more. He let his body sway gently in the water, the occasional leaf falling on him being the only sensation besides the cool stream. His thoughts began to drift, just like his body, and he allowed himself to relax, knowing he needed this moment of respite.

  Heavens, this is comfortable. I could spend all day just lying here.

  Eventually, Varian decided to leave the creek and dress himself again. However, instead of returning to the quarters, he chose to sit on a boulder that overlooked the creek. He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and focused on clearing his mind. One thing that all servant disciples of the Soaring Swallow Sect were taught was how to meditate like proper cultivators. Supposedly, it was easier to sense Qi when one cleared their mind of distractions.

  Not that he would know. People could only begin to sense Qi after living through 16 cycles of nature. Even then, disciples were forbidden from attempting to absorb Qi, even if they could sense it. Trying to absorb Qi without the proper Cultivation Manual was a death sentence. Supposedly, more than 90 out of 100 mortals who tried that would die, and that’s among those with a functioning spirit root. Without one, there was no affinity, and one would be cursed to remain a mortal forever.

  Varian shivered at the thought. If all the effort he’d put into training turned out to be for nothing… No. He refused to entertain that notion.

  And so, Varian let his thoughts quiet as he stilled his breath, allowing calm to overtake him. For now, at least, his companions would be the winds flowing around him and the water lapping beneath him.