Shadowwwing
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49. Proper Instruction
🕑 Added 2025-05-22 22:00:05 +0000 UTCTo Jiang’s surprise, things weren’t quite as awkward as he’d feared.
In fairness, a large part of that was thanks to Han—the man seemed determined to bridge the distance between Jiang and the rest of the caravan, using humour and exaggerated stories to gently prod people into seeing Jiang as something other than a distant, mythical figure. Still, it was slow going, and Jiang quickly found himself mentally exhausted after each attempt at conversation. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but at least people were starting to look him in the eye now, which he supposed was progress.
A few even managed to smile and greet him in passing, though it was often tentative and quickly followed by awkward silence. There was a sort of hesitant awe in their faces that hadn’t entirely faded yet, but progress was progress.
He supposed it helped that as they got used to him, they quickly realised he wasn’t some aloof immortal, just a cultivator who happened to be young and, apparently, very bad at talking to people.
Still, Jiang was grateful for the distraction when the caravan was moving. With the wagons rattling quietly along the packed snow, he found it easier to cultivate than he ever had at the Sect—though that was probably more mental than anything else. It was easier out here, away from the weight of judgmental gazes and the oppressive sense of hierarchy that had permeated everything at Azure Sky. Here, at least, Jiang felt he had room to breathe.
It showed in his progress. Over the last two days, he’d felt his dantian begin to stir restlessly, Qi roiling and pressing against some invisible threshold. He wasn’t there yet, but he knew instinctively that he was approaching another breakthrough—his fourth stage. More Qi, more strength, and perhaps most importantly, more flexibility in how he could use it.
Thinking back to the fight against the spirit wolves, Jiang had tried repeatedly to replicate that moment when Qi had surged through him, reinforcing his body in a way he hadn’t been taught. It had been a hindrance in the moment, leaving him feeling strangely weak – not to mention how sore he’d felt for most of the day afterwards – but something about it had intrigued him. He wasn’t sure if was just his imagination, but he’d thought he’d felt a brief rush of strength as the Qi had rampaged through his muscles.
The last few days of only slightly painful experimentation had confirmed his suspicions. At first, Jiang’s attempts were crude, bordering on embarrassing. The first time he’d deliberately drawn Qi into his muscles, he’d nearly collapsed on the spot, limbs twitching and aching as though he’d sprinted uphill all day.
It was so much worse than the effects he’d felt during the fight, but then again, the Qi that had soaked into his body had been comparatively a trickle from an incomplete technique instead of a focused attempt at cramming as much as possible into himself.
Still, if nothing else, pain made for an effective teacher. He’d learned to start off as slowly as possible and only gradually ramp up his efforts. While this slowed things down enough that it wasn’t likely to be useful in mid-combat, practice had gradually made things quicker and easier. It had still felt like trying to hold water with his bare hands – most of it slipping away uselessly, leaving him frustrated and exhausted – but he was stubborn, and any progress was worth pursuing.
That didn’t mean it wasn’t a little discouraging – and worse still, the fleeting surge of strength he gained was barely noticeable, certainly not worth the rapid depletion of his Qi reserves.
But despite the discouraging start, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was onto something significant. Each night, resting sore muscles under thick blankets, he reflected carefully on what he’d done right and what had gone terribly wrong. The following mornings, sore but determined, he’d sit quietly in the jolting wagon, carefully guiding wisps of Qi into his body, searching for that perfect balance between reinforcement and restraint.
Gradually, the strain lessened – though only comparatively. The technique’s voracious hunger for Qi remained its biggest drawback. Even brief experiments drained him alarmingly fast, forcing him to ration his attempts or risk leaving himself weakened for hours afterwards.
Still, he was sure it was a genuine technique, not some desperate improvisation. It had too apparent an effect to be coincidence.
Which begged the question: why had no one at the Azure Sky Sect taught him this? Granted, the mandatory lessons didn’t cover techniques directly, but they did touch on Qi flow, cycles, and cultivation theory. Why didn’t something like this come up at all? Not to mention how Elder Lu knew his goals, yet hadn’t ever mentioned the technique that would make them so much more achievable.
After a bit of frustrated contemplation, Jiang concluded that it simply hadn’t been worth mentioning at his previous cultivation level. Considering how quickly it drained his Qi now, he would have barely been able to maintain it for a single breath before reaching his current stage.
Yet each small success deepened Jiang’s conviction that this rudimentary technique was only the tip of something larger. With practice, he suspected it could become the foundation of how cultivators displayed their seemingly supernatural strength, speed, and resilience – far beyond what merely breaking through to a higher stage could account for. The thought filled him with equal parts excitement and irritation—excitement at uncovering such a fundamental secret, irritation that he’d been left to stumble blindly into it by chance rather than careful guidance.
Elder Lu had likely known all this, he reasoned, but perhaps the Elder had decided it wasn’t worth mentioning until Jiang had built up sufficient Qi reserves. Or maybe it was simply another of those sect traditions—one more piece of knowledge that disciples were expected to earn through experience rather than direct instruction.
It still would have been nice to have been told something. If nothing else, Jiang was increasingly convinced that his decision to leave was a good one.
Despite the increase in socialisation.
— — —
As midday approached, Han called out from the front, signalling it was time to stop for lunch. Jiang let his Qi settle back into his dantian, exhaling slowly, then stretched to work out the stiffness in his limbs. Maybe he could practice more of his newfound technique later—after training with the guards.
It had started almost accidentally, a conversation three nights ago around a campfire that had quickly stilted. Typically, Han was reliably willing to keep a conversation going, but in this particular case, he’d made some excuse about checking the cargo and vanished. One of the younger guards—Wei Ren, cheerful and irrepressibly talkative—had filled the silence by asking Jiang about his family, which was a… complex topic.
He might still be getting the hang of this whole ‘socialising’ thing, but even he knew casually dropping the fact that his mother and sister had been kidnapped by bandits that he was even now hunting down wasn’t a good way to keep the conversation going. So he mentioned that his father had actually been a caravan guard himself.
He hadn’t quite expected the immediate, palpable shift in the guards’ attitudes. Eyes had widened, heads nodded knowingly, and from that moment the awkwardness around him had begun to ease. Guards, he quickly learned, respected lineage, or at least the idea of shared experiences—danger, discomfort, and endless trudging along muddy roads.
Two guards in particular seemed determined to adopt Jiang into their ranks, despite the unspoken irony of mortals training a cultivator. Wei Ren, who looked like he couldn’t be older than seventeen or so but who carried himself with the casual confidence of someone much more experienced, had instantly volunteered as Jiang’s unofficial instructor. He was friendly and talkative enough that Jiang barely had to do any speaking himself – which would have been a considerable bonus if it weren’t for the fact that he never shut up.
The other guard, who’d introduced himself as Jin and nothing else, was older and, mercifully, considerably quieter.
All of which was to explain how Jiang found himself standing in a clearing near where they’d stopped for the day, holding a wooden training sword and considering the merits of taking a swing at Wei Ren’s head in an effort to get some quiet. It might not be sporting or honourable, as they hadn’t actually started sparring yet… but surely no one could really blame him?
“Right, enough of the chatter,” Jin said, his deep voice cutting effortlessly through Wei Ren’s endless commentary. The older man strode forward from where he’d disappeared to grab some spare gear from the wagons, rolling broad shoulders that seemed perpetually tense. His face was lined, stern but not unkind, the look of a man who’d seen far too many roads and battles but wasn’t bitter about it. He nodded to Jiang, expression serious. “Wei Ren, stop wasting our cultivator’s time.”
“Come on, Jin,” Wei Ren protested, spreading his arms dramatically. “I’m imparting wisdom here.”
“You’re imparting headaches,” Jin replied dryly, thrusting a wooden training sword into Wei Ren’s chest. The younger guard caught it with a cheerful grin, utterly unbothered by the fact that no one seemed to appreciate his friendliness. Jiang could almost respect it.
From a distance.
“Simple exercise today,” Jin explained, his tone even and straightforward. He paced calmly until he stood opposite Wei Ren, extending his sword until the tip was brushing the young man’s tunic, then took a half-step back. “We’ll be this far apart. The idea of this exercise is to either score a clean hit or disarm your opponent – but you can’t move your feet once you’ve taken a stance.”
With that, the man stepped backwards and motioned for Jiang to take his position. Jiang raised an eyebrow but obligingly stepped into place. The gap felt annoyingly large; he’d have to stretch uncomfortably far to even graze Wei Ren’s tunic. Despite that… well, he didn’t really see the point of this exercise. It wasn’t that Jiang was being disparaging of Wei Ren’s skills, but without the ability to move his feet, well…
There was only one way this could end. He might not have figured out the trick behind the Qi reinforcement technique yet, but even without it he was still at the third stage. Still, he was far from an expert. If nothing else, this could be good general practice.
“Take your stance,” Jin commanded from the sidelines.
Jiang settled into a half-crouch, angling himself so his wooden training sword was closer to his opponent.
Jin and Wei Ren shared a quick glance as the younger guard settled into his own stance – standing tall and relaxed with one foot pointed at Jiang and the other set at a right angle, sword held loosely in his leading hand – but neither of the guards made any comment.
“You may begin when ready,” Jin said neutrally.
Wei Ren moved first, flicking his sword lightly towards Jiang’s wrist. It was a quick, casual motion, almost lazy, the tip of the training sword whipping forward with a flick of his wrist rather than a full swing.
Jiang flinched back instinctively, bringing his sword up in a clumsy, sweeping parry. The wood clattered awkwardly together, sending a jolt up Jiang’s arm. His muscles tensed in embarrassment as he realised he’d instinctively taken a step back. The duels in the Sect had taught him that gaining distance was always a good move, to the point that his automatic reaction to any attack was to retreat.
Wei Ren was already pulling his sword back into position, smiling slightly but refraining from comment. Jiang felt a flush rise in his cheeks but stubbornly retook his stance, adjusting his grip.
This time Jiang attacked first, determined to take the initiative. He leaned forward into a thrust, straining to bridge the gap between them. Wei Ren’s sword twitched again, a small rotation of his wrist guiding the wooden blade in a short, controlled arc. Jiang barely felt the contact before his sword spun from his grip, landing with a dull thump in the snow.
Jiang blinked at his empty hand, bewildered. How had that happened? Wei Ren’s strike had felt effortless, barely even noticeable. And yet his sword had flown free as though Jiang himself had thrown it.
Jiang stooped to retrieve the weapon, shooting a quick glance at Wei Ren’s grip—relaxed, fingers loose around the hilt, thumb resting gently along the guard. It looked almost careless compared to Jiang’s own tight grip. How had Wei Ren even maintained enough control with such a casual hold?
“Again,” Jin said mildly from the sidelines.
Resuming his position, Jiang tried to mimic Wei Ren’s grip - loosening his fingers and trying to just let the hilt rest in his hands. It felt unnatural, wrong, as though the sword might slip free at any moment. He tried a cautious swing.
Wei Ren’s sword blurred lightly once more, flicking up from below to catch Jiang’s blade, sending it wobbling harmlessly off-course. Jiang gritted his teeth, but Wei Ren didn’t follow up immediately, instead pausing to subtly adjust his footing, shifting his weight between the balls of his feet without actually moving his position.
Jiang frowned, noting the subtle movement. Wasn’t that cheating, technically? But Jin didn’t react, and it did seem as though Wei Ren was adhering strictly to the rules. His feet remained fixed to the same points, even as he shifted weight smoothly between them. It seemed like he was always balanced, always ready to respond—nothing like Jiang’s own heavy crouch that locked him awkwardly in place.
Jiang shifted uncomfortably, rising slightly from his crouch. As he did so, Wei Ren’s sword flicked out again, a rapid twist of his wrist turning a gentle probing tap into a sudden sharp strike at Jiang’s forearm. Jiang jerked back too late, feeling the dull thud as the wooden blade connected. A definite point for Wei Ren.
He reset once more, embarrassment and frustration mingling with growing curiosity. He was faster, stronger – at least, he should have been – and yet Wei Ren’s attacks were quick enough that he couldn’t react. It wasn’t even that he couldn’t see them coming – he could. It was just that his sword always seemed to be just far enough out of position that he couldn’t do anything about it.
Every motion Wei Ren made was precise, minimal—a small flick here, a subtle shift there—yet each movement was effective, each adjustment purposeful. He hardly moved his arm at all, let alone his shoulders or body. His sword was always in position, wrist loose and mobile, ready to respond.
Another attempt. This time, he was able to keep his grip on his blade, at least – but Wei Ren’s seemingly light motion was enough to nudge his blade away from where it was held defensively in front of his chest, leaving him open.
Another point to the mortal.
Jiang frowned thoughtfully as he reset his position again, embarrassment fading completely in favour of intense curiosity. Wei Ren’s subtle movements felt almost like a puzzle, each flick of the wrist another clue. This was… actually, this was almost fun. Certainly much more engaging than Li Xuan’s training method of ‘beat up Jiang repeatedly’.
What if he tried…
