The air in the vicinity of the Third Cap training yard was saturated with the musky scent of damp earth and the faint bite of Qi formations that sparked in the haze. The yard stretched wide, a rough shape of packed dirt scarred by countless boots and blades, bordered by towering fungal masses that loomed like silent sentinels.
Captain Loren stood at the yard's edge, her silhouette out of place against the backdrop of a fungal forest. Her armor bore the dents and scratches of a warrior's life, each mark a silent testament to battles survived. Her eyes, sharp as honed steel, pierced through the dimness, assessing the figure before her with an intensity that was palletable.
"At least one thing is normal about you. What is your name?" Her voice sliced through the stillness, stern yet tinged with a softening edge, as though she'd permitted a sliver of curiosity to breach her facade.
Wuhlou stood before her, small by comparison, his hands clasped tightly in a gesture of respect or perhaps uncertainty. He dipped his head, unsure if her words were praise or a veiled barb. Beneath his worn tunic, the Talisman pressed warm against his chest, its subtle pulsations cloaking the essence that coursed through him.
"Wuzao Wuhlou," he replied, his voice steady despite the tremor of doubt within.
Loren's lips twitched, a ghost of approval passing over her features. "Good manners," she said, her tone carrying a faint warmth that felt out of place in the grim yard. She gestured down a narrow path winding through the fungal thickets. "Follow me to your room."
They moved in silence, Wuhlou trailing her steps as the path twisted. The academy loomed ahead, its walls a patchwork of weathered stone and wood fused together, as if grown from the earth itself. Corridors branched off like a labyrinth, their surfaces etched with formation lines and runes that made reflection cast an eerie light across the damp stone. The air grew cooler as they descended, thick with the scent of moss and the subtle taste of ancient decay.
A small, windowless chamber, the rooms walls were alive with the same glowing etchings. Loren pointed to them, her gauntleted hand steady. "These formations shield the building. Study them; they might save your life. Training begins at dawn with the other recruits. Initiates attend classes weekly until they build a foundation. Since Orik sent you to me, you're keen on combat, right?" Captain Loren's curiousity was spot on but she needed confirmation that he understood.
Wuhlou nodded, his gaze sweeping the empty halls. The silence pressed against him with the promise of tomorrow's training, new faces, new trials awaited. He sensed it in his bones, a quiet certainty born of a life spent surviving shadows. He had opportunity and it wouldn't be squandered.
Loren departed without saying another word, her boots echoing down the corridor until the sounds faded into nothingness. Alone in the room, Wuhlou felt the stillness settle over him being broken only by the faint hum of the formations covering the walls.
"Hmmph, she's probing. Watch her closely. These formations are shoddy," Whispers' voice came sharp and sudden. The spirit seized control of his body with a jolt, guiding his hand to trace an engraving along the wall. The touch was light but Wuhlou felt the roughness of the stone, the shallow grooves that barely held their glow. "The etchings are weak, with scant radiance. Try sensing Qi yourself if you have doubts."
Regaining control, Wuhlou shook off the spirit's grip and sank cross-legged onto the cold floor. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses as Whispers had taught him. The Qi in the room was thin, a fragile thread fraying at the edges, pooling unevenly where the formations lacked proficiency or faltered. It confirmed Whispers' disdain —he wasn't wrong. "So, what's the plan?" Wuhlou asked, his voice a lowered in the empty space.
"We could enhance the formations but that'd draw eyes. Stay unremarkable—the less attention, the safer we are for the time being," Whispers replied with a measured tone. "Spiritshards will suffice for now."
A cascade of cracked Spiritshards spilled from nowhere, tumbling onto the floor with a soft clatter. Their surfaces glinted faintly, fractured prisms scattering dim light across the room. "Or not…" Whispers shook slightly and hundreds more followed, piling up in a shimmering heap.
The atmosphere in the room turning crisp and sweet, like jam smeared on warm toast—a sensation so vivid Wuhlou could almost taste it. He inhaled deeply, letting the shards' radiance wash over him. His untempered body, pliable as soft metal, drank it in greedily. At a cellular level, he felt a subtle shift—his form lightening, shedding the barest hint of burden, a transformation visible in the faint tightening of his skin.
Whispers watched, its presence a quiet hum in his mind. "This is new. My previous owers were all grown. A child's body… it's a wild path." The spirit's tone held a rare note of fascination as it observed Wuhlou's vitality, raw and unbound, he soaking up the energy like a sponge. It was akin to the legendary Pure Yang bodies, yet free of their mystic bloodlines, a natural conduit for the shards' power.
The wall formations quivered, fine fractures spiderwebbing across their surface as the room trembled. Dust sifted down, catching the faint glow. An illusory green bell materialized from Wuhlou's chest, its chime a single, resonant note that hung in the air before fading. The tremors stilled, the space calming as if chastened by the sound.
Whispers slipped into a deep slumber without warning, its presence retreating to a distant corner of his mind. Wuhlou pressed on alone, sensing the vitality around him through the night. The shards' energy seeping through in his meridians, a quiet strength building as his abdomen forced it to growl, a reminder of the dawn to come. When the first Sun rose he headed to the training grounds, eyes wide with anticipation.
The yard buzzed with chaotic energy when Wuhlou arrived, the clash of wood and grunts of exertion filling the area. Sparring had already begun, no instructor was in sight to impose order. Two teenagers circled each other near the center, wielding oversized wooden cleavers with more enthusiasm than skill. Their movements were clumsy, telegraphed swings leaving trails of dust in the dry earth.
"That's a second point for me," one taunted, his voice dripping with smugness as he hefted his weapon, sweat gleaming on his brow.
"Hey, who's the new guy?" the other called, his eyes flicking to Wuhlou at the yard's edge. His distraction cost him, a wild swing from his opponent narrowly missed his head forced him into a stumble when he tried to dodge.
"Don't get distracted," the first snapped, resetting his stance. It was sloppy but effective, his feet planted wide as he leaned into another swing. Both boys were poorly skilled at evasion, their dancing kicking up clouds of dust that filled the air.
From the sidelines, a girl perched on a low stone wall clicked her tongue in disapproval. Her dark hair was tied back, a few strands escaping to frame her sharp features. "Che, they flail wildly and call it technique. Big Bro, whaddaya think of their…" She raised her hands, making exaggerated air quotes, "…technique?"
Her older brother, Rahijii, lounged beside her, his eyes keen. He smirked, scanning the yard with a predator's casual interest. "I won't touch trash; it stinks and lingers. So, who's this newcomer?" His gaze settled on Wuhlou, a challenge glinting in his stare. "Hey, you, kid."
Wuhlou ignored him, his focus locked on the sparring recruits. He wasn't there for posturing—he wanted to observe, to learn the rhythm of the place. Rahijii's voice grated but it was background noise to the clatter of wood and the shuffle of feet.
Irritated, Rahijii stood, his directness brushed off and bristling at being dismissed. His younger sister, Abigail, grabbed the hem of his robes, her fingers tightening. "Rahijii, there's something off about him. Just watch him." She tugged nervously at her own sleeve, her voice low. "Something's strange."
"Then why stop me? If he's trouble, we can just end him now." Rahijii cracked his knuckles, his eyes narrowing as he sized Wuhlou up.
"No time—look." Abigail pointed to the entrance where Captain Loren appeared, her armor clanking as she moved. Beside her stood a man whose presence seemed to create shifts in the air around him.
The man stepped forward, his battered armor catching the light. His left hand was a metallic prosthesis, its surface dull and scarred, a stark contrast to the rest of his equipment. "I am Sergeant Foris. Address me as Sir, not Teacher. I'm no part of this academy.. I train soldiers. Excel and you might serve the armies on our front lines." He placed his hands on his hips, his voice a bellow that rolled across the yard like thunder. "Is that understood!?"
The recruits gestured their assent, a mix of eager nods and wary glances. Wuhlou tilted his head slightly, studying Foris. "What's his power level?" he whispered to himself, half-expecting Whispers to answer. But the spirit remained silent, still dormant from the night's exertion.
"He's probably at least in the Qi Gathering stage, I think," came a faint reply from beside him. Rhen, a frail boy with delicate features and sunken eyes was standing closer than Wuhlou had realized. His appearance suggested wealth, fine cloth peeked from beneath his robes but his frailty hinted at something else, a life not meant for heirship. "First time seeing an army man up close?"
Wuhlou nodded, the lie slipping out easily. "That helps." Memories flickered unbidden—soldiers in dark armor, a lightless net falling over his family, screams swallowed by silence. His fist clenched briefly before he forced it to relax, masking the surge of emotion.
Rhen edged closer, his voice barely above a breath. "Call me Rhen. Foris served the Emperor's Army ten years now, I heard took down three demons with his regiment before losing his left hand."
Wuhlou's eyes flicked to the metallic hand, unmoving and glinting dully. "Explains why he's teaching, not fighting."
"Don't disrespect him; he won't go easy if you're caught," Rhen hissed, glancing around as if Foris might hear.
"I'm not. He fought and lost it —honest. Losing it otherwise would be worse." Wuhlou's tone was frank, though a thread of skepticism lingered. People were approaching him now, a stark contrast to the solitude he'd known. It set him on edge.
"My mistake, then. How long you been training?" Rhen's curious gaze rose to the wooden training sword in Wuhlou's hands, its surface plain and unadorned.
Wuhlou gripped the hilt tighter, feeling the disguised weight of Ellinger's Bloodsword beneath its illusion. "This was a gift, though it likely seems plain to others." His voice softened, the weapon's quiet significance a tethered to things he dared not speak of.
Rahijii, overhearing, smirked from his perch beside Abigail. "Stay here," he told her, patting her head as he rose. He moved toward Wuhlou, his steps deliberate. "Hey, listen when I'm talking." He reached for the training sword, as his fingers closed around it, he yelped. A sharp jolt coursed through him, a spark of Qi snapping from the blade stunned his hand.
Wuhlou tilted his head, unruffled. "Who told you to touch my sword?" He stood, his voice calm but edged with defiance. "I didn't talk to you earlier because trash stinks and lingers."
Rahijii's smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl. A blade materialized in his hands, its surface lingering with faint Qi. He swung down at Wuhlou still seated in the stands, the strike was swift and reckless, cutting through the humidity with a low whistle.
Wuhlou sidestepped, raising his wooden sword instinctively. The clash sent a shock through his arms, the force rattling his body, all an act but he held firm. Rahijii's blade gleamed, its form aggressive but unrefined, a raw power without precision he had carried with him most of his life.
"Enough!" Sergeant Foris' voice boomed, a cannon shot of sound that froze the yard. "You, newcomer—Wuhlou, is it? Save your sparring for the drills. And you, Rahijii, control your temper or face the pit." His metallic hand glinted as he pointed, his glare a blade of its own, silencing the onlookers.
Captain Loren stepped forward, her glance surveyed the scene. "Wuhlou, you're with Rhen's group. Rahijii, back to your drills." Her tone was iron, her authority absolute, leaving no room for defiance.
Wuhlou lowered his sword, nodding once. Whispers remained silent, leaving him to navigate the growing tensions alone. His resolve hardened amidst Creeping Hollow's restless mess.
The yard simmered with unease as the recruits gathered up but Rahijii's fury hadn't cooled. Later, as Wuhlou sat in the stands observing the next bout, Rahijii approached again, his pride still stinging. Without a word he materialized his sword once more, its blade shimmering with faint Qi. He swung down at Wuhlou, the strike swift and reckless, aimed with lethal intent.
Sergeant Foris, standing near Captain Loren, caught her arm as she moved to intervene. "Let's see how he handles this," he said, his voice calm but resolute.
"I can't believe you're serious… he's twice his size," Loren snapped, her eyes narrowing. Her instinct to protect conflicted with Foris' steady gaze but she relented, her stance rigid.
Wuhlou dodged, slapping the blade aside with his own. The impact reverberated slightly, a dull ache spreading throughout Rahiji's arms but Wuhlou held his ground. Rahijii's sword struck the stands, carving a chunk from the aged wooden seat with a splintering crack. Heavy, Wuhlou thought, his muscles protesting. His wooden Broadsword trembled faintly for appearances, its illusion masking its true might, while the talisman hid his strength.
Rahijii snarled, turning his sword sideways and swiping wildly. The blade arced toward Rhen, who sat frozen nearby, eyes wide. Wuhlou reacted instantly, grabbing Rhen's collar and yanking him clear. In the same motion, he snatched a fist-sized rock from the ground and hurled it at Rahijii, catching him off-guard as he overswung. The rock struck Rahijii's face with a dull thud, splitting his lip. Laughter erupted from the crowd, jeers rising like a tide.
Abigail leapt into action, her face pale but determined. She tossed a talisman skyward, its paper glowing briefly before disintegrating. Three daggers materialized, streaking toward Wuhlou with a faint whine. He blocked two with his sword, the wood knocked dully under the impacts but the third sliced across his leg, a shallow gash welled with blood. Pain arrived, sharp and bright, but he ignored it and charging Rahijii with a snarl of his own.
For a boy his size, the tackle was audacious. He slammed into Rahijii, driving him to the ground with a grunt. Dust billowed as Wuhlou straddled him, slamming his head against Rahijii's face—once, twice, three times —until blood streamed from his nose and he went limp, unconscious. Breathing hard, Wuhlou pressed his training sword to Rahijii's throat, then paused, restraint overriding instinct.
Abigail froze, her breath catching. Her dagger had struck, yet Wuhlou's ferocity only grew, as if the wound fueled him. Her brother lay defeated, bloodied in moments. Wuhlou rose, snatching Rahijii's crested blade from the dirt. It was light and unremarkable compared to the Ellinger's Rot and turned toward her. Dual swords in hand, he rushed forward, his strikes clumsy but relentless, a storm of motion driven by a vow to never yield.
Foris watched, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. "They underestimated him," he muttered, noting Wuhlou's restraint. Not a killing blow, just fierce resolve and swift at that. Sergeant Foris moved, a blur of speed trailing a gust of wind, reappearing to catch Wuhlou's swords in his grasp with a clang. "Enough for today. You've won. Killing in training is distasteful."
Wuhlou stood, chest heaving, swords still gripped tight. "And his actions? He aimed to kill, unprovoked." His voice strained, raw with defiance, pointed out the obvious. "If he'd succeeded would I have a chance to explain? To seek justice?"
Foris released the blades, his grip steady. "I caught your swords, didn't I? Never surrender your weapon —you did right. He'll face punishment."
"And her?" Wuhlou pointed at Abigail, his stare harder than the swords in his hands, blood trickling down his leg.
"She'll be expelled with her brother. They've failed; death's too harsh for training. Never yield your blade to an enemy —let that be a lesson. Only with defense can you endure. Surrendering your sword risks death." Foris waved Loren over. "Take these two and have them thrown out."
Loren nodded, her expression stern as she directed recruits to drag Rahijii and Abigail away, their figures limp and defeated. Their fates were sealed, at least for now.
Wuhlou eyed Rahijii's sword, its faint crest catching the light. It felt flimsy next to the Bloodsword, a trophy he intended to discard. Foris stopped him. "Spoils of combat are yours." His gaze shifted to Wuhlou's calloused hands, rough from labor. "You've worked hard, but lack storage. Take this." He pulled a ring from his pocket, emptied its contents into his other rings and flicked it over. "It's Small but it'll hold enough."
Wuhlou caught it, sliding it onto his finger. It resized seamlessly, a perfect fit. "I thought you said never surrender your weapon?" His tone was blunt, gratitude masked by wariness.
Foris saw the caution in his eyes, a scar of a life with little trust. "It's a reward. You've got more grit than these snotlings." He turned to the stands, voice rising to a bellow. "Line up!" Scanning the fourteen recruits, he shouted, "We're running!"
Groans rose from some, a ripple of discontent. Foris' glare hardened, cutting through the noise. "Those who sighed, get out. Don't make me repeat myself." Five were escorted away, their protests ignored.
"Another's technique can be yours if you adapt, learn from your fights and experiences. There is no respect in this world for those who won't evolve and overcome. Control is a coin with two sides -you have it, or you don't. Experimenting in combat courts death. Train and act with certainty, or lose your life. Even Immortals can die." His words landed like blows. Patting his armor, he began jogging in place, his armor bouncing, the metal clanking. "Power demands purpose. Only the strong make rules. Without strength, soul, wisdom, spirit, or force of will, you've nothing for battle. Line up, follow me. Fall behind and go home—I won't take you."
The run began with a relentless pace, Foris leading the pack beyond the yards edges. The ground was uneven, roots and stones jutting from the earth forced the recruits to leap and weave. Wuhlou stayed near the front, his breath steady despite the gash in his leg. Many faltered early, their breathing ragged, their steps slowing as fatigue set in. One by one, they dropped, collapsing into the dirt or staggering off the path.
Foris spoke as he ran, his voice carrying over the thud of boots. "Scaled Apes have hit the Northern Regions hard. Trade's stalled—caravans torn apart, merchants have even gone silent. Their numbers swell there. Targeted strikes, maybe. Something's stirring." His casual prattling had more to it than just a story, he was illustrating what laid ahead. The Path to Power comes at a cost of Blood and Sacrifice, Training was more than just essential, it was life.
The words painted a grim picture but Wuhlou kept his focus on the rhythm. Lean forward, light steps, full stride -he kept repeating the words in his mind until his body acted on them. The fungus loomed taller here, their glow casting eerie patterns across the path. Only four recruits remained beside him as the weak were culled, their gasps fading into the distance.
"It's not distance —ten kilometers or ten thousand. Every move demands full effort. That's magnificence." Foris flexed, then coughed, slowing briefly before resuming. "Next, one of you four quits."
"Huh?" The group faltered, their pace stuttering.
"One quits now. Choose among yourselves." Foris' contempt was palpable, his eyes probing for weakness.
"I'm not quitting." "No way." "I've worked too hard." "Pick one." Their voices overlapped, then settled as they pointed at Wuhlou. "You, quit."
Wuhlou slid the ring onto his finger, feeling it tighten. He drew Rahijii's sword in one hand, gripping the Wooden Broadsword in the other. "Only the strong make rules."
"Scram, cheap trash," Klairmon, the oldest, sneered, speaking for the group as they circled him, weapons drawn—a hammer, a short blade, a spiked club.
"Talk's cheap. Make me.." Wuhlou pointed his wooden sword, taunting. "All together—are you sure you're enough?"
They lunged as one, a clumsy knot of aggression. The hammer grazed Wuhlou's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood but he swung back, the Bloodsword's blunt edge cracking Klairmon's ribs forcing him into a collapse. He rolled on the ground gasping, clutching his side.
Foris watched from a distance, arms crossed. This kid's got nerve, he thought. The group could overpower Wuhlou together, but their unity frayed.
Wuhlou darted right, running as he'd been taught, wind tearing at his robes. In seconds, he reached the youngest, weapon shaking. Wuhlou smashed his face against a stone outcrop, blood sprayed, then he drove his sword into the boy's shoulder with a sickening crunch. "You." He turned to Klairmon, who raised a shield from his storage bracelet, a faint shimmer meant to block Wuhlou's charge.
Undeterred, Wuhlou used the shield as a springboard, launching at the third. He swung the Bloodsword's blunt edge, breaking the boy's nose with a wet snap before snatching his storage ring and gloves as he fell. "The strong make rules… I like that." Wuhlou's reflexes surged sharper than ever, a wild laugh escaping him. He felt alive, unstoppable.
Klairmon, enraged, materialized an explosive token. A small orb flickered with red light, he hurled it at Wuhlou's feet. Wuhlou kicked it away with a nudge of his boot, the token detonating in a harmless burst of flame and smoke against a nearby fungal stalk. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted, his voice dripping with defiance.
The fourth recruit, a girl named Mira, hesitated, her spiked club trembling in her hands. She'd seen Wuhlou's ferocity, the blood on his hands and she was outmatched. "I… I quit," she stammered, stepping back, her weapon clattering to the ground.
Foris nodded, his expression unreadable. "Wise choice. The rest of you, back to the yard. Training's over for today."
Wuhlou stood, his body felt limber from the exertion. Blood trickled from his cheek and leg, mixing with the dirt caked on his skin. He'd proven himself but the other recruits eyed him warily, their respect tinged with fear. He'd shown them strength but at the cost of new enemies.
Foris approached, his metallic hand resting on Wuhlou's shoulder. "You've got potential, kid. But strength without control is a double-edged sword. Learn to wield it wisely."
Wuhlou nodded, his mind racing. The path ahead was treacherous.