I woke up the next morning to the unholy screech of my mother’s voice shouting, “Breakfast is getting cold!” through my bedroom door. Just another day in the Li household.

  “Ugh,” I groaned, rolling off the bed. If there was one thing I missed from my past life, it was hitting the snooze button on an arm clock. But in a world of cultivators? Yeah, good luck ignoring a mother who can channel Qi into her vocal cords or aim like a sharpshooter with a slipper.

  By the time I dragged myself downstairs, Dad had already cleared his pte and was tinkering with a small formation diagram at the table. Mom, wearing her no-nonsense apron, was halfway done with her food, giving me a pointed look.

  “You’re lucky I let you sleep in,” she said, in that tone that suggests she definitely considered other, far more nefarious ways to wake me. “We’ve got a full day.”

  I plopped down, picking up my bowl of congee. “Mornin’, Mom. What’s on the agenda?”

  “Cultivator market details,” she said, sliding a small note toward me. “It’s two weeks from today.”

  Two weeks. Perfect. That left me time to figure out how many spirit stones I could “replicate” without causing suspicion. I thought back to st night, remembering how I’d conjured a handful of second-stage spirit stones from the system. Infinite points plus a minor moral dilemma, I thought, shoveling congee into my mouth.

  “Good,” I mumbled between bites, “I’ll be ready. Need to see what items are out there—and, you know, maybe pick a path to focus on.” I shot Dad a gnce. “Still deciding on whether to go the formation route or something else.”

  He smirked over his notes. “Plenty of time to decide. You might even see some traveling alchemists or rogue formation masters at the market. They usually like to show off or recruit apprentices.”

  Mom nodded. “And I’ve got more news.” She put down her spoon, as if preparing for a serious announcement. “The Elders want you to attend the next recruitment exam for the Green Willow Sect. It’s four months from now.”

  I stopped mid-chew, nearly choking. “Wait—seriously? But… why the Green Willow Sect?” Not that I was opposed; I just didn’t expect the Elders to do anything proactively helpful.

  “They’re decent,” Mom said, shrugging. “Known for their stable environment and a fairly broad range of profession masters. I’m sure you’ll find a niche there if you pass.”

  Dad chuckled. “The Elders said, and I quote, ‘We can’t let that brat’s potential go to waste, or cause more havoc here.’ More or less.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, that’s sweet of them.” Then I frowned. “Four months is pretty soon. Am I even prepared?”

  “You will be,” Mom said firmly, in that “Mom Knows Best” voice. “Two weeks from now, we hit the market for resources. After that, you’ll have about three and a half months to refine your techniques or pick up something new—whichever profession path you settle on. If you can pass the sect’s entrance exam, you’ll be set for the next stage of your cultivation.”

  “Or,” Dad added with a mischievous twinkle, “you’ll just end up forging your own sect from scratch, purely out of spite. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a hotheaded genius do that.”

  I gave him a pointed look. “Oh, come on, Dad, I’m not that petty. Besides, building a new sect is more trouble than it’s worth.” At least for now, I added in my head. The mental image of me brandishing a banner reading “Jason’s Super Awesome Sect (We Have Infinite Stones)” was too ridiculous, though… also strangely tempting.

  Finishing my breakfast, I took a deep breath. Four months. That was a big deadline looming on the horizon. But part of me felt excited—like stepping onto a bigger stage where I could show off more than just my speed of cultivation.

  “So, in the meantime,” I said, pushing my empty bowl away, “how about we do some practice matches? Gotta keep my reflexes sharp.” My real thought, of course, was: I need to test out the system’s mass production on more items, see if I can stockpile enough to impress the market vendors.

  Mom raised an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping over her face. “You challenging your dear old mother? Remember what happened st time you got cocky, young man.”

  “I had a bruise the size of a watermelon on my arm for a week,” I deadpanned. “But yeah, sure. Round Two?”

  She stood, rolling her shoulders in a way that made me reconsider my life choices. “Let’s take this outside. I’ll give you five minutes to warm up before I come at you.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “I’ll be here. Not intervening.” He gave me an almost pitying nod. “But do try not to break any furniture this time. It’s expensive to repce—and you know your mother can’t hold back too well.”

  Gulp. “Yeah… yeah, sure,” I managed. I’d been pining for a spar, but now I wondered if a strategic retreat would’ve been wiser. Still, it beat the alternative of dealing with more elder politics.

  As we headed out to the courtyard, the sun peeked over the tiled roof, bathing our training ground in morning light. My body still buzzed with second-stage energy. Two weeks until the market, four months until the exam… and an unlimited stash of spirit stones. I grinned, bouncing on my toes. This was going to be one heck of a year.

  The sun was barely halfway across the sky when I found myself standing in our courtyard, bracing for the Mother of All Beatdowns—quite literally. Mom cracked her knuckles, stepping forward with the measured calm of someone who’s taught more than a few lessons to insolent juniors. Dad was parked on a nearby wooden bench, biting into an apple and not-so-secretly enjoying the show.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Mom asked, rolling her shoulders. “I won’t go easy on you just because you’re my son.”

  “That’s… fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Fake it till you make it, right? “I need real practice. Might as well get it from someone I trust.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You trust me to not break your bones?”

  I swallowed. “You’ll be… gentle?”

  Mom answered by lunging forward, forcing me to jerk back with a yelp. “In a manner of speaking,” she said cheerily.

  Dad snorted. “It begins.”

  I scrambled across the courtyard, my heart pounding. Second-stage energy or not, Mom had years of real combat experience on me. She glided across the paving stones, each movement so economical that I found myself stumbling just trying to keep track of her.

  Stay calm, I told myself, adopting a basic stance. I tried to recall the fundamentals she and Dad had drilled into me: banced posture, steady breathing, watch your opponent’s hips more than their eyes…

  Of course, it helped if your opponent wasn’t moving faster than you could blink. Mom suddenly pivoted, her hand streaking toward my shoulder. I managed to raise a guard, but she feinted at the st second, hooking my arm and flipping me onto my back.

  “Ooof!” I hit the ground with enough force to knock the air out of me.

  Mom stood over me, her expression thoughtful rather than smug. “Your stance is decent, but you hesitate. You’ve got to trust your instincts more.”

  Dad’s muffled ughter drifted from the sidelines. “He also needs to keep his footing. Kid, if you slip on moss again, we’re renaming you ‘Slick Step Elder.’”

  “Gee, thanks,” I grumbled, hauling myself upright. My entire back felt like it’d just been used as a drum.

  I decided to try something else—a direct strike. Drawing in a thread of my second-stage energy, I lunged forward with a punch, aiming for Mom’s torso. She sidestepped me with ease. Her fist flicked out so fast I barely saw it.

  One second ter, I was bent over, gasping, while she casually shook out her wrist. “You’re telegraphing,” she said. “And you’re focusing too much on your own movements instead of watching mine.”

  I winced, chest throbbing. “Does it count as telegraphing if I never got to finish my move?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ouch.”

  She patted me on the head like I was an overgrown puppy. “Rex. You’re definitely stronger than you were a few weeks ago. The only reason it looks this bad is because we have such a skill gap.”

  I tried not to groan. Skill gap. Right. That was a nicer way of saying “I’m pummeling you into the ground.” But I couldn’t deny her expertise. She had probably decades of real combat behind her. Still, it stung my pride just a bit.

  After a few more rounds of tasting dirt, I decided to switch up tactics. Think outside the box, I reminded myself. Dad had once told me that in a real fight, cunning often beats raw power.

  As Mom rushed in again, I focused on the ground beneath her feet. We were outside near the garden, where a few loose cobblestones and scattered gravel provided decent cover for a quick distraction. Right before she got within striking range, I channeled a small burst of Qi into my step, kicking up a spray of pebbles.

  It wasn’t exactly graceful. More like flinging handfuls of grit at her ankles.

  “Seriously?” Mom excimed, momentarily annoyed. That split-second was all I needed. I darted in, shielded my face, and managed a half-decent palm strike to her shoulder.

  She slid back a few inches, blinking in surprise. “Well, that’s new.”

  “Adapt or die, right?” I grinned—until she re-centered in the blink of an eye and shot forward, hooking my leg and toppling me again. This time, she pinned me face-down before I could so much as twist.

  Dad actually cpped. “Nice try, kiddo. The gravel trick was good, though.”

  “Could use some refinement,” Mom said, releasing my arm. “And maybe a stronger follow-up.”

  I wheezed. “Noted.”

  Eventually, after what felt like hours but was probably less than half that, Mom decred the spar over. I sprawled out on the courtyard floor, my lungs burning, but weirdly satisfied.

  “That’s enough for today,” she said, offering me a hand. I took it gratefully. “Your stamina’s good for a second-stager, but your actual combat sense still needs work. Keep practicing with your father’s footwork drills and my foundation stances. We’ll spar again soon.”

  “Y-yeah… sure,” I managed, leaning against a small stone pilr. My body felt like a sack of jelly, but in a weird way, I was proud I’d nded even one semi-hit on her.

  Mom went and got a drink. “I think he’s earned a break. Besides, you mentioned you had something else to teach him soon—wasn’t it sorcery basics? Or are we waiting until after the market?”

  “I’m waiting until he’s rested,” Dad said, shooting me a warm (yet terrifying) grin. “But yes, we’ll get into the theoretical side after he recovers. If he’s serious about refining a profession—and dabbling in ‘sorcery’ —he’ll need to integrate it properly with his cultivation.”

  I groaned, even as a thrill of anticipation coursed through me. Learning sorcery might help me harness my elements and, hopefully, help me not get tossed around like a rag doll next time.

  “Great,” I said, “because being able to fling some spells sounds a lot better than being the family punching bag.”

  I dragged myself to the nearest chair, still wincing from fresh bruises. Mom’s sparring style was brutal but thorough. One good shot. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Besides, I’d chosen this path: a weird blend of Chinese cultivation and Western sorcery, all with an “infinite system store” in my back pocket.

  A grin tugged at my lips, despite the aches. *Two weeks to the market. Four months to the sect exam. And next on the list: actual sorcery training with Dad. * If I survived that, who knew what else I could accomplish?

  Dad tossed me a water skin from across the courtyard. “Drink up, kiddo,” he said. “You’ll feel better once your Qi circution settles. And next time, try not to end up face-first in the koi pond, yeah?”

  I snorted and took a long gulp. “No promises.” But if it means less time tasting gravel, I’ll do my best.