Varian awoke after what felt like an eternity, his eyes heavy with the lingering haze of sleep. The faint scent of herbs and aged wood filled the room, gradually lifting the haze over his mind. He knew he couldn’t afford to be idle, though; his fellow disciples wouldn’t stop improving. While his father had forbidden him from physical training, Varian was starting to realize he knew painfully little about the world of cultivation. He aimed to rectify that.

  He had heard of alchemical pills before his spar with Lucas, yet he hadn’t ever expected their effect to be that potent. What knowledge would he need to acquire to make those pills for himself? The allure of alchemy beckoned, and Varian resolved to learn all he could find in his father’s compound.

  With deliberate care, he lifted himself out of the straw bed, his injured arm protesting against the very notion. The room was quiet, save for the pained grunts accompanying his every movement.

  Eventually, Varian managed to properly escape the confines of the comfortable bed. He noticed his robes cleanly folded on the floor next to him, a note placed neatly on top of it. Varian opened the note and read it through carefully, not knowing what to expect.

  After reading through it in its entirety, he couldn’t help but chuckle. It seemed that regardless of the circumstances he found himself in, his friends would always find a way to add some levity.

  He could clearly see all 3 of his friends’ handwriting, each distinct from one another. Arthur’s looked lazy, as if written while the young man was half asleep. Ren’s was far more flowing and precise, and William’s was gruff and bold.

  With a small smile lingering on his face, Varian donned his clean robes, hoping not to aggravate his arm any further while wondering what his friends were doing now.

  He walked out of the room, the smell of wood and tea fading, yet not disappearing. “How long has it been since I’ve been in these halls…” Varian wondered to himself as he walked down the halls that were once familiar to him.

  As Varian wandered the halls in search of his father’s library, he encountered an attendant carrying a stack of neatly arranged scrolls. “Excuse me,” he said, “do you know where I can find the custodian’s library?”

  The attendant paused, her eyes scanning him quickly before realization lit up her face. “Ah, of course, young master! Please, follow me!” She replied with a respectful nod.

  Shaking his head at the formality, Varian pushed the heavy doors open. The library greeted him like a relic from another time. The air was thick with the smell of old leather bindings and parchment. Shelves stretched high into the room, packed with dusty tomes that looked older than even his father. He never was familiar with the library, it being largely uninteresting to him as a child.

  After several minutes, his gaze landed on a section marked “The Four Professions.” Among the neatly stacked volumes, one title caught his attention: The Fundamentals of Alchemy.

  He pulled the book from the shelf, its leather cover creaking in protest. Dust scattered into the air as he opened it, revealing dense but neatly organized pages. The text promised to guide its reader through the history and process of alchemy, from its origins to its practical applications.

  Varian settled into a nearby chair, his injured arm resting against the armrest. He felt a quiet determination welling up within him. If he was to understand the forces shaping his world, this was as good a place to start as any.

  Hours slipped by as Varian pored over the thick tome, his initial enthusiasm giving way to mounting frustration. Alchemy was no small undertaking—it demanded not only knowledge but also precision and focus. With a sigh, he placed the book back on the shelf, rubbing his temples as he considered his next step.

  He resolved to broaden his perspective, choosing to read at least one introductory book on each of the four professions before making any decisions. Picking up a tome on weapon refining, he was drawn into the art of creating weapons of legend, weapons whose names would be recognized anywhere in the world.

  Next came a book on beast taming, which described the delicate balance of the companionship required to form bonds with spiritual creatures. Varian’s interest piqued as he noticed information seemed to be largely lacking, as if it were lost.

  Finally, he turned his attention to formations, a discipline steeped in Qi flow and preparation. The complex diagrams of energy flows and geometric patterns left his head spinning, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of wielding power so versatile.

  “Varian,” August began, his tone both amused and mildly exasperated, “I know you don’t consider reading books physically exhausting, but look at the time, would you? Your one-track focus can be a detriment too, it seems.”

  Varian opened his mouth to protest, only to glance out of the nearby window and see the darkened sky. The sun had long since set, and the moon now hung high in the heavens, its silvery light casting a serene glow over the world. Stars glittered like scattered jewels, their brilliance a reminder of how much time had passed unnoticed.

  “Ah, you’ve been reading up on the professions. Do any of them catch your eye?” his father inquired.

  Varian hesitated, unsure which one sounded most interesting, before shaking his head.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to read up on them in the coming weeks. Go rest now,” August said firmly, leaving no room for disagreement.

  Varian knew a lost cause when he saw one and decided to heed his father’s chiding tone.

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  The following weeks were spent in a steady routine. Varian would wake up early to meditate and eat. The afternoons would be spent in the library, delving deeper into each of the professions. Each day brought morsels of information to him, filling in his empty tapestry of knowledge.

  Naturally, his father couldn’t always be there with him; his responsibilities kept him out of his own compound more often than inside it. On the occasion he was present, however, Varian would bombard him with questions.

  One such day, they found themselves discussing Varian’s final two options: beast taming and formations.

  “There’s one thing you’re not considering about beast taming,” August said seriously. “Until 5000 years ago, it was considered nothing but a myth from a bygone era. As such, its foundation is lacking, its depths not explored.

  “Couldn’t that potentially mean it holds even greater strength, though?” Varian countered without hesitation.

  August’s brows furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “Yes, that is true. However, do you not think that great minds from the past and present alike have been working towards that? Choose the path that has been explored, not one forgotten to time,” August intoned grimly.

  He continued, his tone softening slightly: “There are formations to conceal treasures, to accumulate Qi for cultivation havens. With sufficient preparation, formations can even be used in combat.”

  Varian pored over his father’s words, acknowledging the truth in them. Something about exploring uncharted waters just spoke to Varian deeply.

  He hesitated for a second before shaking his head lightly, his resolve unwavering. While he respected the man immensely, his mind was made up.

  In the days following their conversation, Varian immersed himself in every book on beast taming he could find. Admittedly, his father’s collection on the subject was limited, but Varian devoured each text regardless.

  At its core, beast taming revolved around forming a bond with a spirit beast. The primary challenge lay in the innate aggression of these creatures. Spirit beasts possessed physical strength that could rival cultivators of the same stage, yet their limited mental faculties made forging a bond notoriously difficult.

  Despite the difficulty, however, Varian was not cowed. I am choosing a hard path; I know this. But if I don’t take any risks, how could I ever become a truly great cultivator? Varian wondered to himself.

  At this point, the pain in his arm had reduced to all but nothing. Varian was itching to grab his staff once more, but he knew he’d have to wait for his father’s permission just a bit longer.

  That same evening, he got granted exactly that.

  Varian stood in his father’s courtyard, facing dummies that resembled the ones in the servant quarters, albeit sturdier and more imposing. In his left hand, the staff rested comfortably—a companion he hadn’t realized he’d missed until now.

  August stood off to the side, his sharp, eagle-eyed gaze fixed on his son. “Begin with the basic strikes of the Foundational Swallow Sweeping Strikes. Do not practice on the dummy yet,” he commanded.

  Varian took a deep breath, narrowing his eyes in concentration. As his lungs emptied, he drew on the energy coursing through his blood and began. Thrust. Chop. Sweep. His movements flowed from one to the next. Varian closed his eyes, his surroundings fading to the background.

  Memories of past battles crept into his mind. He had spent countless hours thinking about how to improve, how he could’ve fought better against both William and Lucas.

  Tap.

  A sharp sting jolted him back to the present as his father’s staff struck him lightly on the shoulder. Varian blinked, his focused trance shattered.

  August stood before him, his own staff firm in his hands, his expression unreadable. “It is good to focus,” he said sternly, “but do not lose yourself while practicing. Learn to maintain that level of focus and stay aware of your surroundings.”

  He paused, his gaze softening slightly. “That being said, your foundation isn’t bad.” With a nod of approval, he gestured toward the dummies. “Now, try those same moves against the practice dummies,” August instructed as he stepped back and sat down, watching intently.

  Varian didn’t dwell on his initial failure. He leveled his staff at the dummy and thrust forward, but before the staff connected, the dummy’s wooden arms jerked into motion, deflecting his strike with ease.

  He froze, staring at the dummy in bewilderment, trying to comprehend what had just happened. His musings were cut short by his father’s voice. “Don’t stop—keep going until you manage to hit it,” August said, the challenge obvious in his voice.

  Varian knew he was being goaded, but he couldn't be incapable of striking a singular dummy. Taking a deep breath, he dashed forward, aiming for a faster thrust to catch it off guard. Yet once again, the dummy swatted his staff aside effortlessly, using that same jerking motion. Using the momentum from the parry, Varian transitioned into a sweeping strike, but it got deflected all the same.

  This exchange continued for several minutes. Each strike became more frantic, more sloppy, while Varian’s focus started waning. Varian started to feel fatigue creeping into his limbs. His breathing grew ragged, the energy leaving his body faster than his breaths could draw it in. Eventually, the fatigue overwhelmed him, having Varian drop to the floor unflatteringly. He breathed in deeply, hoping his greedy intakes of air would soothe the fire running through his muscles.

  “Not as easy as you thought, huh?” August taunted, standing up from the ground with an irritating smirk plastered on his face. “Don’t let it get to you, son. These dummies are designed for cultivators in the Body Refinement stage, not mortals, after all. His tone shifted, almost consoling.

  Varian shot his father a glare, frustration evident in his expression. “Then why make me fight them? That’s not fair at all! How am I supposed to hit them?” He asked, words leaving him both angrier and faster than he expected of himself.

  August shook his head slowly, his expression tinged with disappointment. “You’ll need to rein in that temper of yours one day, Varian,” he said sternly. Then, after a pause, he added, “For now, watch closely. I’ll suppress myself to the physical level of a healthy mortal.”

  What followed was a lesson in precision. August began with a thrust, mirroring Varian’s earlier attempt. But just as his strike neared the dummy’s blocking arm, August slowed it, allowing the dummy to parry just as it had with Varian’s. However, instead of the staff being deflected outwardly, it bounced lightly on the dummy’s arm. August slid his staff over the arm effortlessly, striking it on the neck.

  Varian watched in stunned silence. He knew that the seeming simplicity of the maneuver was but a facade. To do what his father had done would require an immense degree of bodily control, keen understanding of one’s weapon, and a sense of timing borne out of relentless practice.

  “This, young Varian,” August said, his tone serious as his gaze pinned his son, “is what we’ll be practicing for the next two weeks. By the end of these two weeks, I expect you to be able to hit this dummy at least once. If you manage to strike it more than that? Well, let’s just say I'm not a stingy person.”

  Varian opened his mouth to protest, aware of how difficult this task would truly be. Yet, despite the doubts swirling inside him, his head nodded resolutely. He accepted the challenge, being both interested in the challenge ahead of him as well as the potential reward.

  “Then come, son,” August said with a grin, clapping his hands together. “Try again, and again, until your body refuses to move, and your heart can no longer fuel your body past its limits.”

  Varian groaned at the thought, but without hesitation, he took his stance. He knew this was just as much a part of his journey as cultivation itself.