Chapter 10: The Forge of Will
The scroll was a revelation. In Lin Yao's precise, analytical script, the Flowing Cloud Sword Art was not a mystical form, but a series of biomechanical equations. She had broken down every stance, every feint, into vectors of force, points of balance, and predictable patterns of motion.
*Stance: Cloud's Embrace. Primary force vector: lateral, 30-degree arc. Optimal counter: apply perpendicular force of 50 Newtons at the wrist joint to disrupt flow.*
Li Wei studied it in the flickering candlelight of his shack, the dry language a strange comfort. It was a language he was beginning to understand. This was no longer a duel of mystical arts; it was a physics problem he needed to solve.
His training with Old Sweeper took on a new, ferocious intensity. Now, instead of generic defenses, they simulated Zhang Feng's specific attacks.
"Cloud's Embrace!" Old Sweeper would call out, his broom weaving the coiling pattern.
Li Wei, instead of bracing, would step inside the arc, his hand striking not at the "sword," but at the precise point on Old Sweeper's wrist that the scroll indicated was the fulcrum of the technique. A tiny, sharp release of kinetic energy—just a flick—was enough to send the old man's grip twisting, spoiling the stance.
"Good!" Old Sweeper would grunt, shaking out his wrist. "You are using a needle instead of a hammer. But he will be faster. Stronger. You must be perfect."
They drilled for hours. Parry. Redirect. Ground. Li Wei's body ached, but the humming energy within him grew more responsive, more a part of him than his own heartbeat. He learned to release energy in precise, controlled bursts from any part of his body—a sudden push from his foot to adjust his balance, a micro-shove from his palm to deflect a strike.
Lin Yao became their silent strategist. She would appear at the edge of the grove at dusk, her grey robes blending with the shadows, to deliver her reports.
"Zhang Feng's primary energy expenditure is in the third form, 'Mountain's Mist,'" she stated one evening, her voice as calm as if she were discussing the weather. "It is a powerful, sweeping strike, but it leaves him over-extended for 0.8 seconds. His right hip is the pivot. It is a vulnerability."
Old Sweeper nodded, a grim smile on his face. "A weakness in his foundation. We will exploit it."
And so they did. Old Sweeper would launch into the exaggerated, powerful sweep of "Mountain's Mist," and Li Wei would practice not dodging, but flowing under the strike, his body low to the ground, his focus on that single, over-extended hip.
"You cannot meet this force head-on," Old Sweeper panted after a particularly vigorous session. "Even with your power, the transfer would shatter your bones. You must be like the reed that bends in the hurricane. Let the storm's own fury carry it past you, then strike at the eye of the tempest when it is exposed."
Li Wei understood. He was not building a bigger wall. He was becoming the entire landscape—the yielding earth, the guiding riverbed, the unpredictable wind.
The day before the tournament, the air in the sect grew thick with anticipation. The training yards were packed with disciples performing their final drills. The scent of festival foods began to waft from the kitchens.
Li Wei stood alone in the bamboo grove one last time. He closed his eyes, running through the sequences in his mind. He saw Zhang Feng's sneering face. He felt the cold tremor of the Entropy. He heard Old Sweeper's rasping voice and Lin Yao's cool analysis.
He was no longer the broken prodigy, the humiliated herb-gatherer.
He was a vessel of kinetic potential. A student of fundamental laws. A warden against a silent apocalypse.
He opened his eyes. The doubt was gone, replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity.
Tomorrow, he would step onto the stage. They expected a spectacle of a cripple's final, desperate stand.
He would give them a demonstration of a new law being written.
The first law of his vengeance.