Jason stood in the featureless dark, staring at the softly glowing sphere that was the bracelet's spirit form. For several long heartbeats he could find no words. The light hovered at eye level, patient and expressionless, waiting.
Finally he managed a dry laugh.
"I thought you'd look like some kind of overlord in here. Maybe a throne, a crown, something dramatic."
*Very funny,* the sphere replied, its voice exactly the same dry tone he heard in his mind outside. *In this space I am only a servant, waiting to carry out my master's wishes.*
Jason glanced around at the endless black. "So this entire place belongs to whoever holds the bracelet?"
*Correct. Ownership of the bracelet grants ownership of the space. However, deeper regions and higher functions remain locked until the master meets certain cultivation and comprehension requirements. Speaking of which—* the light pulsed once—*you are already running short on time. Your consciousness cannot remain here indefinitely at your current level.*
"Shit. I forgot." Jason straightened. "All right, straight to business. We can take the tour another day."
*Agreed. Follow me.*
The sphere drifted forward into the darkness. Jason walked after it, footsteps making no sound on the invisible ground. They traveled for what felt like several minutes though distance was hard to judge. At last the sphere stopped in an area that looked no different from the rest of the void.
Jason turned in a slow circle. "Is this supposed to be the training ground? There's nothing here."
*You're standing on it.*
The moment the words left the spirit, soft light began to rise from the floor and spread outward in every direction. Walls of pale stone materialized, lined with racks of weapons—swords, spears, sabers, staves, and stranger implements Jason had no names for. The floor beneath his feet became smooth, springy wood marked with training circles. The air itself seemed to sharpen, carrying the faint scent of oiled metal and old exertion.
Jason's breath caught. In the Fox territory he had never been allowed near the real training grounds; those were reserved for blood members and favored servants. Here an entire private hall had unfolded around him in seconds.
He walked to the nearest rack and reached out. His fingers passed through a sword's hilt as though it were mist, yet when he concentrated the weapon solidified enough to lift.
"Are these real?"
*They are formed from the spiritual energy I have absorbed—primarily yours. They will serve for practice. Feel free to use any of them when the time comes. For now, we focus on the technique you came for.*
Jason stepped back, suddenly remembering the ticking clock. "Right. Where do I start?"
*Take out the manual.*
He blinked. "This is only my consciousness. How am I supposed to have the physical manual?"
*Will it into existence. Quickly. Every moment you waste shortens your stay.*
Jason closed his eyes and pictured the worn booklet exactly as it looked in the real world—the frayed edges, the dark binding, the characters for "Phantom Kick" on the cover. At first nothing happened. Frustration rose. He forced the image sharper, poured intent into it the way he poured energy into a punch—
—and the manual appeared in his hand, solid and familiar.
A grin tugged at his mouth. "I think I understand how this works."
*Good. Place it on the tablet.*
A low stone tablet rose smoothly from the floor a few paces away. Jason approached, then hesitated with the manual still in his grip.
"What exactly does this tablet do?"
*It can take the diagrams and written instructions of a cultivation method or martial technique and render them into living motion. The demonstration is clearer and more detailed than any human instructor could provide. That is why comprehension is faster here.*
"Will I get the manual back afterward?"
*Of course.*
Reassured, Jason set the booklet on the tablet's surface. Light flared across the stone. The pages seemed to dissolve into streams of glowing characters that rose into the air and wove themselves into the shape of a human figure—transparent, outlined in soft blue light. Inside the figure Jason could see the pathways of energy as clearly as veins under skin.
The demonstration began.
Blue light flowed downward from the figure's dantian in rapid, precise streams, flooding both legs until they shone. The figure stomped once, grounding itself, then snapped its right leg upward in a kick so fast the limb seemed to blur and double. A sharp gale whipped through the training hall. The stored energy discharged completely in that single motion, leaving the leg momentarily dim. Before the foot even returned to the floor the left leg was already rising, repeating the same explosive, slightly illusory strike.
Jason watched, riveted. The sequence repeated three times, each cycle revealing tiny adjustments in timing, angle, and energy transfer.
"I see it," he murmured. "That's why Mother insisted both legs had to be trained equally. And the speed… how am I supposed to move spiritual energy into the leg that fast before the kick lands?"
*That is exactly where your training begins,* the bracelet said. *But not today. Your time is up.*
Before Jason could protest, the entire space folded. The glowing figure, the weapon racks, the stone tablet—all of it collapsed into darkness. A powerful force seized his consciousness and flung it outward.
Jason's eyes snapped open in the real world. He was still sitting cross-legged beneath the trees, the evening air cool against his skin. A dull ache pulsed behind his temples. He pressed a hand to his cheek and scowled.
"You said I was the master of that space and you were only a servant," he muttered. "Yet you threw me out the second I was starting to enjoy myself."
*I am sorry,* the bracelet answered, genuinely contrite for once. *You had only heartbeats left before the strain would have injured your mind. A slow exit was not an option.*
Jason exhaled, the irritation fading. He looked down at his hands, still feeling the ghost of the luminous figure's perfect form.
"It's all right. At least now I know exactly where to start."
He rose, brushed the dirt from his trousers, and turned toward home. Two full days had passed since he left the tent. Clara and Hannah would be worried. The tournament was drawing closer with every sunrise. But for the first time he carried more than stubborn hope—he carried a clear path, a private training ground, and the first real understanding of the technique that might let him stand among the Fox disciples without being crushed.
The bracelet rested quietly on his wrist as he began the long walk back through the darkening woods, the image of those sequential, gale-force kicks still burning bright behind his eyes.