A soft wind carried the scent of woodsmoke and old leaves.
Shadow walked alone.
His new robes were clean—simple grey with a black sash, the mark of an outer disciple—but the boy within them was no longer the same.
His posture had changed.\
His footsteps were measured, deliberate.\
And though pain still lingered in his bones, his eyes were sharp—*too* sharp for someone who had once been called a waste.
> "I have no Qi to waste," he thought as he approached the towering Martial Arts Pavilion, its four floors rising like a pagoda of forgotten power.
> "I have no elder backing me. No high-grade pills. No clan techniques."
> "But I see things others don't."
> "My vision is my sword. My mind is my blade."
He stepped through the threshold, into a wide hall lit by flickering lanterns of soft green jade. The scroll-scented air hit his nose—a mix of aged parchment, dried herbs, and faint spiritual ink.
At the front desk, a white-bearded elder lay half-dozing with his arms crossed and back hunched like an old turtle. He opened one eye as Shadow approached.
The elder blinked once.
Then again.
And then scowled.
> "...You? Shadow?"
His voice was raspy. Disbelieving.
> "What are you doing here? You're not—" he paused, frowned, then narrowed his eyes.
> "Wait… your aura. You've… cultivated?"
Shadow bowed politely, his tone calm and quiet.
> "Yes, Elder. Three nights ago, a thunderbolt struck me. When I woke, my dantian was no longer sealed."
The old man stared, then let out a long, disinterested sigh.
> "Heh. The heavens really do have a strange sense of humor."
With a dismissive wave, he gestured toward the rows of scrolls behind him.
> "First floor only. **Wood Low Tier** techniques. Don't even look at the stairs."
> "Second floor is for inner disciples. Third for core. And the fourth…" he yawned, "…is for the Sect Master. Holds the only **Iron Rank technique** in the sect."
> "Pick two. Three weeks. No damage. No copying. No complaints."
Shadow bowed again and stepped inside without another word.
---
### The Martial Arts Pavilion – First Floor: Wood Low Tier
The moment he stepped inside the inner hall, the noise of the outside world faded. Rows upon rows of scrolls lined carved wooden shelves, each labeled and categorized with meticulous care.
Above each section, signs read:
- **Movement Arts**
- **Sword and Blade Forms**
- **Palm and Fist Styles**
- **Breathing Techniques**
- **Foundational Stances**
Jade lanterns floated overhead, casting soft green light across the polished floors. A quiet reverence settled over the room. Even the dust seemed hesitant to stir.
Shadow walked slowly, absorbing the titles and summaries engraved on each scroll.
**Leaping Shadow Step** – Deceptive footwork that focused on disrupting an opponent's rhythm through feints and side-shifting.
**Ghost Walk** – A stealth technique designed for silent approach and evasion.
**Wind-Threaded Weave** – A fluid style of footwork meant to glide around attacks with minimal resistance.
He selected *Ghost Walk*, intrigued by its minimalist philosophy, and moved toward an empty practice alcove to test it.
The theory made sense. The steps were clean. The weight transitions subtle.
But something was off.
His first few steps were light, well-placed.
Then he tried transitioning into the fourth motion.
> "No... the flow is wrong."
His balance stuttered. His core felt disconnected. It was as if his own body resisted the form.
He tried again.
The energy that should have guided his steps wasn't flowing.
> "My cultivation method doesn't circulate spiritual energy. It pulls it in. This technique requires harmony... and mine is all devouring."
He returned the scroll and turned toward the **Sword and Blade Forms**.
His heart stirred as he ran his fingers along the spines of the scrolls.
**Seven Petal Slash** – A sword form of sweeping arcs and flowing motion.
**Piercing Thorn Style** – A technique focused on rapid thrusts and vital strikes.
**Swallow Drop Slash** – A diving attack mimicking a bird of prey.
He chose *Piercing Thorn Style*. Clean. Fast. Minimalist.
With a wooden training sword from the rack, he began mimicking the stance.
Step.
Slide.
Thrust.
The first sequence flowed naturally.
But then, mid-movement, his body stalled.
The energy that should have guided the thrust refused to move. His muscles tensed. The technique demanded controlled Qi through the blade's edge.
But there was none.
> "I don't have circulating energy. My Heaven-Stealing Sutra isn't a river. It's a whirlpool."
He tried again. Harder.
Still no resonance. The form refused him.
He stepped back, breathing harder now. Not from exertion.
From realization.
Over the next hour, he tried more than ten techniques:
**Stone Root Palm** – for powerful blocks.\
**Cloud Ripple Step** – to dodge without losing balance.\
**Dustless Movement** – to vanish in silence.\
**Steel Needle Palm**, **Broken River Footwork**, **Three-Circle Draw**.
All of them. Perfectly written. Visually understood.
But **unusable.**
> "I see them. I understand them."
> "But they weren't made for someone like me."
His dantian didn't cooperate. It absorbed. Stole. Pulled inward. The Heaven-Stealing Sutra didn't guide or nurture energy.
It took it.
And these arts—even the simplest of them—were built for harmony.
Not theft.
---
Shadow returned the scrolls gently, one by one, back to their places.
His footsteps were silent.
His expression, unreadable.
But deep in his chest, disappointment stirred.
> "I thought I had finally stepped onto the same road."
> "But this path... still doesn't belong to me."
He looked toward the staircases rising above him—to higher floors filled with stronger arts.
> "I overestimated myself."
> "I thought understanding was enough."
> "But it isn't."
He turned away.
---
The elder didn't look up as Shadow passed.
> "Didn't take anything?" he muttered without opening his eyes.
Shadow paused.
Then gave a small, polite smile.
> "Nothing useful for now, Elder. But thank you."
The elder grunted and resumed snoring.
Shadow stepped outside, into the fading sunlight.
The doors of the pavilion closed behind him.
He walked in silence.
> "If there is no sword in this world that fits my hand..."
> "Then I will forge my own."
> "Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke."
> "Until Heaven itself can no longer deny me."
And with that, Shadow vanished quietly into the dusk, the martial world oblivious to the blade it had just cast aside.
A blade still sharpening in silence.