Chapter 11: The First Blade
The next morning hit with a cold bite. Mist hugged the mountains, making everything look distant and secretive. Fang stepped out into the clearing behind the hut, feeling the sharp chill of the earth through her bare feet. Her training robes were nothing fancy, just tough enough to take a beating, stitched by Master in one of his rare, practical moods. Inside, she could almost sense the flow of her newly opened meridians—like plugged pipes suddenly uncorked.
Master faced her with two wooden swords in his hands. No warning, just a toss. Fang snatched hers from the air, hands moving before her mind even caught up. That reflex, she'd earned it—months of sore muscles, days spent dodging blows, nights barely sleeping.
"Qi Gathering builds the tank," Master said as he lazily spun his sword, making it look easy, almost bored. "Meridian Opening widens the pipes. But all that means nothing if you freeze up in a real fight. Today, we start combat cultivation. This is the real deal."
Fang's grip tightened. Fighting wasn't new, but the idea of fighting back—of using pain as leverage, not just as survival—felt different. It felt right.
Master started to circle her. His steps slow, almost casual, but you could see that poise—he could jump from relaxed to lethal in a blink.
"Rule number one: don't expect fairness," he said, not bothering to disguise the edge in his voice. "The world won't give you any. Use everything. Your terrain, your surprise, both sides of your qi. Blessed Devil Root lets you hit hard and fast. Cursed Immortal Root keeps you standing when others would drop. Together, you become someone people regret underestimating."
And then, with no warning, he lunged—a straightforward sideways slash. Fang blocked it, but it rattled painfully down her arms. He didn't let up, hammering her with three more quick strikes. She staggered, each swing forcing her to speed her qi circulation just to keep up, just to stay upright.
"Too slow!" Master's voice rang out, almost teasing. "Stop thinking so much. Let your yang qi move you. Hesitation's your enemy."
Fang pushed back. She grabbed onto her Blessed Devil Root and fed yang qi into her legs. She surged forward, finally finding a burst of speed she hadn't realized was possible. Her sword cut through the air, aiming for Master's side.
He met her attack. Hardly any effort, two deft fingers stopping her blade. His smile widened.
"Better. But predictable. Let's see some creativity."
Time blurred. They sparred two hours straight, Master always holding back just enough to push her, but every round left Fang battered, breathing raw. She started to mix her yin qi—flowing defense, dodging, letting attacks slide off her. Yang qi's bursts added power to her strikes. It became a dance, and slowly, she stopped thinking and just moved.
At one point, Master swept her legs. Fang twisted mid-air, reflex sharper than pain, a quick hit of qi under her ribs steadying her. She landed and countered, her wooden blade jabbing right up to Master's chest. He arched his brow, honestly impressed.
"Not bad, little rabbit. You're learning faster than I thought. Keep going."
Fang dropped her sword for a second, sweat dripping, chest heaving, but adrenaline kept her upright. A thrill prickled through her. "I felt it—that qi flow, the way it moved through me when I struck."
Master nodded, tossing her a gourd of water. "That's where it begins. Out there, hesitation's fatal. Fighting while channeling qi—switching offense and defense between your roots—almost nobody manages it. You're going to be the exception."
They sat for a bit. Master found a rock and watched her, silent. You could see the gears in his mind turning, something serious fighting for space behind those lazy eyes. Fang's progress, it was getting hard to hide. She could feel it—she was becoming valuable, maybe even dangerous. He weighed two risks, neither comfortable. Letting her grow meant risking exposure. Holding her back wasted her gifts.
"Again," Master said, finally rising. "This time, I won't pull my punches. Show me everything your Origin Roots can do."
Fang lifted her sword, her resolve obvious. Old scars stood out beneath summer light, almost pulsing with the quiet promise of strength. She didn't move like a slave anymore. She moved like someone who refused to let herself break again.
By noon, she lay sprawled in the dirt, bruised and exhausted, but grinning at the sky. Master stood over her, hand outstretched. She took it, aching but proud.
"Enough for today. You did well."
As she got up, she turned to Master. Something tugged at her—a need to know, not just to be instructed.
"Master… why did you choose me? Not just as a servant?"
The question caught him off guard. For a second, his mask slipped. You could see ambition in his eyes, pride, a flicker of real affection.
He ruffled her hair, almost rough, hiding whatever emotion had slipped through.
"Curiosity. I wonder what kind of monster you'll become. And maybe… I want to see how high the little rabbit can fly."
Fang didn't push for more. She held onto his answer, storing it like fuel inside her. It was enough for now. Tomorrow, she'd be stronger. And someday, she'd uncover the rest.