Chapter 4

  Arden opened his eyes. The light in the hall was different now—not morning, soft and cold, but dense, midday. The rays fell at a new angle, pulling the shadows longer than before.

  He didn’t immediately understand how much time had passed.

  The hall was silent.

  Too complete.

  He straightened slowly. Five students… no. They were gone.

  Only one man sat by the wall, his back against a wooden panel.

  Alaric.

  Arms folded over his chest. Eyes open. His gaze calm.

  “Finally,” he said.

  Arden looked around the hall.

  “How long?”

  “Three hours.”

  Arden blinked.

  “The others?”

  “Left.”

  “They didn’t feel it?”

  “They did. Some—fatigue. Some—irritation. One—his own pulse.”

  Arden lowered his gaze.

  “I…”

  “Felt it,” Alaric finished. “That much was obvious.”

  He didn’t smile, didn’t nod. He simply stated a fact.

  “Is it because of the root?”

  “Partly. A heavenly root gives you greater sensitivity to qi. But it doesn’t make you a master. It only removes one barrier.”

  Arden straightened.

  “Starting today, you attend only the morning lectures.”

  “Only?”

  “The rest of your time is practice.”

  “On my own?”

  “Yes.”

  Arden didn’t nod at once.

  “I’ll manage.”

  Alaric studied his face, as if trying to find where confidence ended and stubbornness began.

  “Confidence isn’t a substitute for experience.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Then let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To choose a foundation.”

  They left the hall. The corridors were quieter than usual. The day had already reached its middle, and most people were busy with their tasks. The air smelled of old wood and sun-warmed dust.

  They walked in silence for a while. Then Alaric spoke:

  “A main cultivation technique defines how qi circulates. It shapes your meridians. It sets your internal cadence. It determines how your qi will condense in the future.”

  “And if I choose wrong?”

  “You’ll build a crooked foundation.”

  Their footsteps echoed in the corridor.

  “You can change techniques in the early stages, while the structure is still flexible. After Foundation Establishment, it’s almost impossible—without destroying what you’ve already built.”

  He kept walking without turning back.

  “Auxiliary techniques don’t decide your direction. They change you. Some strengthen the body—muscle density, bone structure, endurance. Others work with the soul—sharpen perception, stabilize the mind, protect against intrusion. A third affect qi itself—make it denser, cleaner, or sharper in nature.”

  “And there are techniques that form abilities. Not moves. Not spells. But stable traits.”

  Arden listened carefully.

  “Spells are tools. Active applications of qi: seals, words, will. They don’t build your foundation.”

  They turned into the north wing. The air grew cooler.

  “Many confuse power with direction. They see a flashy technique and take it, without thinking whether it matches their root.”

  He slowed his pace.

  “You have a heavenly root. And multiple attributes. That gives you potential—and makes harmonization harder.”

  A heavy door appeared ahead: old wood, metal inlays, seals along the edges. Alaric stopped.

  “Right now you’re not choosing a trick.”

  He placed his palm on the door. The seals trembled.

  “You’re choosing your future.”

  The door opened slowly.

  The air inside was cooler and drier, carrying the thin scent of paper, ink, and something older—dust that had outlived generations.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Arden stepped over the threshold. Tall shelves rose almost to the ceiling. Scrolls lay in lacquered cases: some tied with ribbons stamped with seals, others sealed under thin metal plates. Along the far wall, sections shimmered under a faint barrier.

  The quiet here was different from the training hall. Not empty—focused.

  “This is the clan’s main library,” Alaric said. “Not the oldest, but enough to choose a foundation.”

  Arden walked slowly along the first row.

  “Are all these techniques available?”

  “No. Some require the elders’ permission. Some require a certain realm. And some simply aren’t for you.”

  Alaric stopped by a shelf and touched a case.

  “There are techniques meant for a single attribute. There are techniques meant for two. There are techniques built for gradual harmonization.”

  His gaze turned more serious.

  “A technique designed for nine attributes doesn’t exist. Not in our library. And probably not at all.”

  “But there are techniques built on multiplicity from the start. They don’t suppress attributes. They try to bring them into balance.”

  Arden nodded.

  “That’s harder.”

  “Much harder.”

  “How do I know what fits?”

  “Read. Compare. Feel the response. A technique isn’t only words—it’s a rhythm. If your breathing adjusts on its own, that’s a sign.”

  Alaric took a step back.

  “I’ll leave you.”

  “Without advice?”

  “The advice comes after you choose. Don’t chase the loudest one. Don’t chase the rarest one. Find the one that chooses you.”

  The door closed softly.

  Arden was alone.

  He ran his hand along the nearest row. The wood of the cases was smooth, warm with age. Each had a neat plaque with a name.

  He took the first.

  “Flame of the Scarlet Source.”

  Fire. A pure, direct path—strong, aggressive. The cadence was sharp: a short inhale, a long exhale. Qi was driven upward, to the chest, to the arms.

  Too narrow.

  He returned the scroll to its place.

  “Silver Current of Pure Water.”

  A slow, viscous rhythm. Softness that demanded complete devotion to a single element.

  Not for him.

  “Iron Blood of the Ancestors.”

  Pressure. Heat. A pulsing promise of strength—heavy and straight. And almost total disregard for every other attribute.

  Too much conflict.

  “Azure Wind’s Breath.”

  Lightness and speed. Thinned streams. A demand to shed the heavier elements.

  Not his path.

  “Root of Stone Flesh.”

  A slow, heavy cadence. Reinforcement through compression. Reliability.

  But immobility.

  The shelves stretched on. The names grew quieter. The phrasing—less grand.

  One case stood out not for brilliance, but for calm. No promises of power. No aggression.

  Arden opened it.

  The lines were even. Qi was described not as a line, not as a flare, but as a structure.

  Not suppression. Not amplification.

  Alignment.

  He sat on the floor and read the first pages more carefully.

  His breathing changed on its own.

  Deeper.

  Steadier.

  A sense of solidity formed in his chest—calm, stable.

  Not conflict.

  Not resistance.

  The rhythm didn’t single out one element and didn’t mute the others.

  It accepted multiplicity as the starting truth.

  Arden closed the scroll.

  The decision didn’t need words.

  He simply took it.

  He stood.

  And his gaze slid on its own—toward the far wall.

  Where the barrier shimmered.

  In the corner, separated from the rest, lay another scroll.

  No lacquer.

  No decoration.

  Leather.

  Roughly stitched. Uneven.

  Even through the seal he felt something heavy.

  Not warmth. Not cold.

  A sticky malice—like breath locked inside, unwilling to be forgotten.

  Arden stopped.

  He didn’t step closer.

  But he didn’t turn away.

  Something inside answered.

  Not fear.

  Not attraction.

  Only the understanding that such a path existed.

  The barrier shimmered softly, reminding him of a line.

  Arden looked back at the scroll he’d chosen.

  Foundation.

  Future.

  He turned and walked toward the exit.

  Behind him, the barrier kept glowing.

  Chapter 5

  Arden stepped out of the library, and the heavy door behind him shut with a dull click. The corridor was cool. It smelled of dust, old wood, and something barely there—as if the walls themselves held the breath of generations. Alaric stood by a column, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze calm. He wasn’t pretending he had wandered here by chance.

  His eyes flicked to the scroll in Arden’s hands.

  “I expected you to choose this one,” he said.

  Arden stopped in front of him.

  “You knew?”

  “I know the library better than you know your own room.”

  A brief silence.

  “Heavenly Jade Bone,” Alaric said evenly. “One of the few techniques that truly suits you.”

  He stepped closer and touched the edge of the scroll without taking it.

  “It doesn’t suppress your elements. It doesn’t force one to dominate the others. It reduces conflict. Builds a structure. Forms jade veins in the bones—an extra circulation. Stability.”

  Arden listened in silence.

  “At the second stage, the bones are fully transformed. The conflict between attributes decreases. The flows stop getting in each other’s way. You don’t gain a burst of power—you gain steadiness.”

  “And the ability to change techniques later,” Arden added.

  Alaric gave the slightest nod.

  “Correct. Once the jade transformation stage is complete, you can transition without destroying your foundation. That’s a rare quality.”

  He studied his grandson.

  “But don’t confuse stability with ease.”

  Arden held his gaze.

  “What’s the drawback?”

  “Speed.”

  The word came without softening.

  “The more elements you have, the slower cultivation becomes. Four is already a noticeable drag. Nine…” Alaric paused briefly. “Nine is a trial.”

  Arden nodded.

  “I understand.”

  “No,” Alaric countered calmly. “Not yet. With a root like that, people will expect domination from you. Not explanations.”

  The silence thickened.

  “You chose a foundation,” he continued. “Which means you’ll have to hone your weapon separately.”

  “I understand.”

  Alaric looked at him longer than usual.

  “Then start today.”

  ***

  That evening, the room was quiet.

  The scroll lay open. Arden sat down and closed his eyes.

  His breathing was steady. Deep.

  Qi answered him with weight.

  Not a flare.

  Not strength.

  A load.

  As if something foreign and hard was forming inside his bones, demanding space.

  The flows didn’t collide—but they resisted.

  Nine directions.

  Nine gravities.

  And each demanded priority.

  He drew a deeper breath.

  Reducing conflict didn’t mean there would be no pain.

  The first pulse of the jade structure appeared near his collarbone.

  Thin.

  Almost imperceptible.

  And with it—a sharp, cold pain.

  He didn’t open his eyes.

  Didn’t stop the circulation.

  Qi slowly wove itself into bone.

  Very slowly.

  Too slowly.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  His fingers trembled, barely.

  He understood.

  With a root like that, they would expect domination.

  Not excuses.

  Not explanations.

  Domination.

  Eighteen years old.

  The Lunveyr youth tournament.

  If he lagged behind, they wouldn’t forgive it.

  If he was mediocre, he’d be replaced.

  A jade vein formed, no thicker than a hair.

  And with it came a crack.

  Quiet.

  Internal.

  Blood welled on his lips.

  He wiped it away slowly with the back of his hand.

  And continued.

  If the path was slow, then he would make it flawless.

  If the path was painful, then he would endure.

  Nine elements would not become his curse.

  They would become his tool.

  Even if, for that, he had to break himself for years.