Chapter 12: First Slash
The sun kept crawling up the sky, baking everything below. Fang felt the heat digging into her skin, sweat clinging to her back while every muscle complained. She refused to let it slow her down. Master's training wasn't gentle. Today, he piled on the pressure—make your qi flow, move your body, defend, attack, all at once. No breaks, no rest. He wanted everything sharp.
"Again," he said, voice cool as always. "Infuse your strike with qi. Stop swinging the sword like a stick—use it like it's your own hand, your own roots reaching out."
She didn't argue. Instead, she nodded, wrapped her grip tighter around the battered wood, and inhaled until her lungs felt like they might burst. Deep down, the yang qi surged up from her Blessed Devil Root, blazing through her arms and into the sword. The wood almost buzzed in her hands, gold-red light shimmering at the edges—a burning warning to the world.
No fancy moves. Just a simple horizontal slash. She let the energy spill through.
There was a sharp, slicing sound, loud enough to make the air itself seem to split. This time, her strike didn't just look impressive—it felt alive. A crescent of pure yang qi tore off the tip of the sword. It flashed out, slicing through ten meters of space so fast she could barely track it. When it hit the mountain, there was no mistaking the damage—a scar, clean and deep, marking the stone from end to end. Molten rock glowed in the cut's wake, hissing as it cooled, while bits of stone scattered everywhere.
She lowered her sword, breathing heavy but steady. She barely moved her feet. What had she really done? It felt… almost easy. Strange.
Master didn't rush over. He stood there, arms folded, one eyebrow arched. It wasn't admiration—and it definitely wasn't surprise. He didn't do either. To him, it was like she figured out how to pour tea without spilling water. That kind of acknowledgment—quiet and measured, no risk of making her head swell.
He walked closer, ran a hand down the rock's new wound. "Ten meters out, three meters deep—above average for your stage."
He glanced over at her, something sly creeping into his voice. "That's all. You threw out half your qi like it was nothing. Look at the dust in the air—wasted energy. If you learned to hold it together, squeeze the energy until it's sharp instead of letting it blow out in a wave, you'd reach fifteen meters. More cutting power, less waste."
Hearing that, Fang's pride deflated a bit. She thought the strike was strong—maybe even impressive—but now she knew it was all muscle and little technique. Her qi was everywhere but where it belonged.
Master, still unsmiling, flicked her on the forehead. Just hard enough to sting. "You've got enough reserves now to cover for your mistakes. But that won't always be true. Bad habits grow roots. Later on, those roots get you killed. That kind of attack will take out the weak, but when you meet someone tougher, you'll wind up exhausted and outmatched."
She dropped her eyes and nodded. "Understood, Master. I'll get the control down next time."
He looked at her for an extra beat. That look—that single raised eyebrow—didn't say much, but she knew what he was hiding. Deep down, he had to be surprised. A fourteen-year-old girl tearing a ten-meter gouge in solid rock with nothing but a practice sword and some raw qi? Even with her gifts, it was unheard of. Still, he kept his face closed, because praise too early sours the spirit. He wasn't about to let arrogance root itself in her heart.
Tossing the sword back to her, he gave his next command. "One more time. Focus the qi—make it a blade, not a hammer. And try mixing in a thread of yin qi. It'll keep the energy from blowing apart."
Fang's grip got stronger, eyes narrowed with purpose. The scars on her arms lit up, faint but obvious. She let both roots answer—yang for raw might, yin for a cold, careful edge.
She attacked again.
This time, the strike was smaller but sharper—almost surgical. The new cut ran deeper and left nothing wasted.
Master watched, lips twitching into what almost, almost looked like a smile.
He knew she'd take every bit of ground he gave her and run faster than he ever expected. The little rabbit really was growing her fangs.