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50. Taking a Stance
🕑 Added 2025-05-25 22:00:04 +0000 UTCThreads of Qi turned endlessly in Jiang’s dantian, racing through his pathways as he cultivated. The more pathways he cleared, the more he realised how they formed a complex structure, winding through his whole body in a way that was more than the sum of its parts.
It also highlighted how clumsy his attempts at creating techniques were. His Qi reinforcement was essentially just pushing Qi randomly into his muscles, while his stealth technique was just dragging his Qi deeper into his dantian and sort of… vibrating it, for lack of a better term.
It was almost embarrassing how long it took him to realise that improving his techniques was a matter of structuring his Qi into better forms, not simply increasing the amount he used.
Unfortunately, knowing what he had to do didn’t actually help him do it.
Jiang sat cross-legged in the back of the wagon, brows furrowed, threads of Qi twitching unhelpfully in his core like tangled strings. He could sense them clearly—he always had. That was the one thing he had going for him. Elder Lu had explained the different ways cultivators perceived Qi, such as how some saw it as colours, some could smell it, and some could hear it. Jiang… couldn’t really understand how anyone could hear Qi – surely that would just be incredibly distracting? – but either way, he had always seen it in his mind’s eye as fine, shimmering strands running through his body like silver wire pulled taut.
The trouble was getting them to do anything useful.
He started with what he knew. He drew a thread of Qi from his dantian and tried to guide it to his right forearm, carefully following the natural lines of his meridians. That much was easy now; realistically, it wasn’t any more difficult than clearing his pathways. But when he tried to hold it there—compress it, shape it—things began to unravel. Literally.
The Qi trembled, warped, then began to fray at the edges. It dissolved back into his system with a sensation like water slipping through clenched fingers. He sighed, unsurprised. Qi was… motion, life. Hardly shocking that trying to force it into a static shape was difficult – but it had to be possible.
Surely.
He could make lines, sort of. But only barely. They wobbled. Warped. Collapsed if he so much as blinked. And anything more complex - circles, angles, loops - was utterly beyond him. His Qi just didn’t want to stay where he put it. It flowed like ink on a page he hadn’t dried properly.
He sometimes thought he could feel the beginning of something more - like the threads wanted to twist around each other, knotting into shapes his mind couldn’t quite hold. But the moment he tried to guide it, the whole thing unravelled again.
And yet, there was progress. Frustrating, infuriating progress.
Even his fumbling attempts at imposing order on his Qi had resulted in a noticeable improvement in his stealth technique. Not a significant improvement by any means, but noticeable – which meant it was worth pursuing further.
Jiang exhaled slowly, letting the Qi disperse and leaning back against the wagon wall. His limbs felt heavy, faintly tingling where the energy had run too long or too deep, but it was a familiar kind of ache now—almost comforting.
If nothing else, the practice was accelerating his path toward the fourth stage. He could feel it building, the pressure mounting slowly with each passing day. Another push, maybe two, and he’d be ready.
It was strange to think about, really. Less than six months ago, he would never have imagined the quiet joy of feeling Qi move through his body—knowing that each thread brought him one step closer to the power he needed to save his family.
Jiang let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thunk, gaze drifting skyward. The clouds were thin today, wind moving high and steady. Something passed overhead—wings outstretched, silent and distant, slipping between clouds like it belonged there.
He watched until it disappeared.
Then he closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and began again.
— — —
The training had been moved closer to the wagons.
Jin claimed it was better to train near distractions, but Jiang suspected it had more to do with the snow - soaked boots and soggy cloaks didn’t make for enjoyable swordplay, and the mortal guards felt the cold much more keenly than Jiang himself did. Honestly, if he had to pick his favourite part of being a cultivator, it would be his new-found resistance to temperature.
He’d spent more than enough winters shivering in a makeshift shelter in the woods, desperately hoping he’d find some prey before the frostbite set in.
They stood now just off the road, where the trees thinned and the packed earth gave way to loose gravel and brittle grass. The oxen generally trampled the ground fairly thoroughly in search of food, so while they occasionally ended up training in mud it was better than snow.
The sounds of the caravan drifted constantly in the background: wheels creaking, animals snorting, voices calling out in lazy rhythm. Laughter came in bursts—quick, bright, and inconsequential. Jiang found it strangely pleasant. Familiar. Like something he’d forgotten to miss.
Wei Ren twirled his practice sword once, then stepped forward to meet Jiang with a grin that promised trouble. “Loosen your grip,” he said—not for the first time.
Jiang adjusted his hold without comment, letting his fingers ease fractionally on the wooden hilt. It still felt wrong—like the weapon would tumble free if he even breathed too hard—but he’d stopped arguing about it days ago. Wei Ren was too good-natured to gloat and too annoyingly correct to ignore.
They exchanged a series of slow strikes—nothing fancy, just repeated drills. Attack, deflect, recover. Again. Again. Jin stood nearby, arms folded, watching silently with that hawkish gaze of his. He only spoke when something needed correcting, and never twice.
Jiang swept his blade across in a parry that actually felt clean for once—tight angle, good timing. Wei Ren pulled back, eyebrows lifting faintly in approval. Then he flicked his wrist and rapped the back of Jiang’s hand hard enough he dropped his training sword.
“You still tend to stiffen up after a successful defence,” Wei Ren explained helpfully, though the smug look on his face detracted from the advice a little. Jiang couldn’t entirely blame him, as despite all of his inherent advantages he had yet to land a single strike. If he was the sort to care about honour or face, he would no doubt be horrified by the situation.
Thinking about how the disciples in the Azure Sky Sect would act if they could see him now – losing against a mortal – was very amusing.
With a slight grin at the thought, Jiang picked up his training sword again and retook his stance. At least he was improving.
— — —
The road dipped gently southward, carving through patchy scrub and dry winter grass. Snow lingered in the shadows but had gradually melted in the direct sunlight, leaving the way ahead slightly muddy and uneven. The wagons moved slower now, wheels grumbling through ruts and shallow holes. Jiang walked beside the second cart, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze flicking absently across the horizon.
According to Han, they should be arriving at a small village sometime today, one of three along the road to Qinghe. While that meant it had taken him a little over a week to travel only a third of the way to his destination, he couldn’t bring himself to regret joining up with the caravan. While he could certainly make it there quicker on his own, the training alone made the delay worth it, to say nothing of how he was finally starting to feel more confident in interacting with people who knew he was a cultivator.
As much as he hated to admit it, tracking down the Hollow Fangs was not going to be similar to hunting deer through the forest – he’d managed it once before, certainly, but that was by following their path from the burned-out remains of his village. With an obvious starting point and a clearly laid trail, anyone could have done that – but finding them when he only had a vague idea of their general location was something he was going to need help with.
With a sigh, Jiang sped up, passing the slower-moving wagons and making his way to the front of the caravan. These thoughts weren’t productive at the moment – he simply didn’t know enough about the situation around Qinghe to plan for anything. Better to spend his time working towards the fourth stage.
— — —
The village came into view just after midday, tucked between two low ridges, a scattering of dark roofs behind a rough-looking wooden wall. There was some farmland outside the walls, but no one was working the fields. From here, Jiang could see smoke rising from a few chimneys, thin and hesitant, quickly snatched away by the wind. The main gate—a crude affair of heavy, mismatched timbers—was closed. Barred.
It wasn’t a welcoming sight.
In the fifteen or so minutes it took them to approach, Jiang could faintly see a flurry of motion in the village, some heads poking over the wall in their direction. The gates didn’t open.
Han clicked his tongue, pulling the lead oxen to a halt well short of the entrance. The rest of the caravan rumbled to a stop behind them, the sudden silence amplifying the nervous shuffling of the animals and the creak of wagon wheels settling.
“Well now,” Han murmured, hand resting on the crossbow beside him. “That’s not what you like to see.”
Jiang said nothing, eyes scanning the top of the palisade. He could sense the eyes on them, too - the prickle of fear and suspicion from within the village walls. Not aggressive, not yet, but wary. Tense.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then, a section of the gate creaked open just wide enough for a single figure to emerge. A man, bundled in patched furs, carrying an old, pitted spear like it was an extension of his arm. He stopped a dozen paces from the lead wagon, his stance rigid.
“State your business,” the man called out, his voice rough, strained.
Han leaned forward on the driver’s bench, keeping his hands visible. “Han Shu, caravan master out of Fangzhou, heading north to Qinghe. Just looking to resupply, maybe trade a bit if you’ve got goods to spare. We mean no harm.”
The guard’s eyes flickered over the length of the caravan, lingering on the armed men and the canvas-covered wagons. He didn’t relax. “We’re not open for trade today.”
“Not open for trade?” Han echoed, his friendly tone taking on a slight edge of surprise. “That’s… unusual, friend. Especially for a caravan of our size. We’ve got coin. And goods you won’t see again ‘til spring, if then.”
“Village council’s orders,” the guard said, his grip tightening on the spear. “No large parties. Too much trouble lately.”
Trouble. Jiang felt a familiar tightening in his own gut. Bandits? Spirit beasts? Or just the usual desperation that winter brought to isolated settlements?
Han sighed, a plume of white mist in the cold air. “Look, we’re not looking to cause any issues. But my beasts need water, my people need fresh provisions. We can’t just bypass you - the next settlement’s three days north, and that’s if the weather holds. Surely you can let a few of us in to purchase what we need? We’ll pay fair prices.”
The guard hesitated, then glanced back towards the gate as if consulting with someone unseen. After a moment, he nodded curtly. “Only a few. Unarmed. And you’ll be watched.”
Han’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. “Fair enough. Can’t ask for more than that.” He turned to Jiang, a wry smile playing on his lips despite the tension. “Well, then. Feel like stretching your legs? Could use another pair of eyes, and someone who knows how to look after themselves if things get… complicated.”
Jiang met his gaze. Over the last week or so, while they travelled, Han had been teaching him a little more about how to move through society as a Cultivator, about the difference between soft and hard power. How influence could be more dangerous than any blade.
It wasn’t anything quite so formal as lessons, of course, but there was a distinctly instructional bent to the conversations. To his surprise, Jiang had found it interesting – and he’d always been a quick learner when something interested him. Which meant he knew what Han was really asking – or rather, what Han was hoping for. A cultivator at his side, even a young one, was a powerful deterrent.
Oh, Han wouldn’t threaten anyone with his presence – hell, he probably wouldn’t even mention that Jiang was a cultivator, not outright, not if everything went smoothly. But at the same time, the caravan master wouldn’t hesitate to play the cards in his hand if it benefited him.
And while Jiang had a new-found appreciation for social intricacies, that didn’t mean he wanted to be a part of them.
Part of him - the part that respected Han’s experience as a caravan master and his informal teacher, and felt the unspoken responsibility of his own nascent power – wanted to agree. It was the ‘right’ thing to do, in a way. Help the caravan, ensure a smooth resupply, be the useful, capable figure Han clearly thought he was, or wanted him to be.
But another, stronger part recoiled. The thought of walking into that tense village, of navigating the suspicion and fear, of being the silent threat or the begrudgingly accepted outsider… it made his teeth ache. He’d had enough of social maneuvering to last a lifetime. Half of the reason he’d left the Sect was to avoid this kind of thing, not walk right back into it.
“I think I’ll stay with the wagons, Han,” Jiang said, gesturing vaguely at the woods. “If the village is this suspicious, there’s probably a reason for it. Someone should keep an eye on things out here. Just in case.” While technically, the reasoning was sound, it was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it.
Han was silent for a beat, scratching at his beard. The sounds of the caravan—the guards murmuring, the oxen shifting—seemed louder in the stillness between them.
Then Han let out a short, rueful laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, kid. You learn fast, don’t you?” He clapped Jiang on the shoulder, a genuine, if slightly weary, smile finally reaching his eyes. “Too fast for my liking, sometimes. Alright, alright, can’t say I blame you. Last thing anyone needs is more politics when they’re just trying to buy some turnips.”
He winked. “Wish I’d learned to say ‘no’ so easy when I was your age. Would’ve saved me a sight of trouble.” He turned then, calling out to a couple of the guards and one of the more matronly women from the passenger wagons, his voice once again all business.
Jiang watched them go, a small, carefully selected party heading towards the barred village gate. He felt a strange mix of relief and something that might have been guilt.
But mostly relief.
For better or worse, he was learning to walk his own path – even if it meant occasionally disappointing the people who were trying to help him along.
The important part was that it was his path.
Comments
Raymond Mouton
Thanks for the chapter.
