The morning mist of the North Peak was particularly thick, clinging to the Sparring Terrace like a damp wool blanket. This terrace was the heart of the North Dormitories—a wide, circular platform of weathered granite where reputations were forged and broken.
Ten instructors stood along the perimeter, their faces impassive. In the center stood Instructor Goren, his arms crossed over his chest. Today, the three hundred Outer Disciples would be whittled down to ten. These ten would gain access to the Cloud-Library, the first step toward leaving the "stray" life behind.
"The rules are simple," Goren barked. "No killing. No permanent crippling. If you step off the granite, you lose. If you use a Battle Spirit, you lose. Use your fists, use your weapons, but most importantly, use your brain."
Blake stood in the crowd, his presence retracted. He had seen the "Seed" disciples of the Inner Sect yesterday—they were polished, arrogant, and fast. But the Outer Disciples were different; they were desperate. And desperation made for dangerous, unpredictable combat.
"First match!" Goren pointed to the board. "Blake vs. Han!"
The crowd parted. A tall, whip-thin youth stepped onto the granite. Han was a 2nd-layer Vital Essence cultivator who specialized in the "Twin-Leaf Sabers." He drew his weapons, the steel whistling as he performed a quick, flashy flourish.
"I saw you with the vest, wanderer," Han said, his eyes narrow. "Strength is one thing. But can you hit what you can't catch?"
Blake stepped onto the terrace. He didn't draw Silence. He didn't even take the black-wrapped bundle off his back. He stood in a relaxed stance, his arms hanging at his sides.
"Start!" Goren commanded.
Han moved instantly. He was a practitioner of the "Drifting Leaf" style—a sub-branch of the Academy's core footwork. He seemed to glide across the stone, his sabers becoming a blur of silver. He circled Blake, looking for a gap in his guard.
Blake didn't turn to follow him. He kept his eyes forward, his breathing steady. He wasn't watching Han with his eyes; he was watching with his Vital Essence. He felt the ripples in the air, the slight shift in the stones as Han shifted his weight.
Han lunged. The sabers came at Blake from two different angles—one aimed at his throat, the other at his thigh.
Blake didn't retreat. He stepped forward.
It was the "Silent Rhythm" he had practiced in his room. By moving into the attack, he cut Han's range in half. He twisted his torso, the throat-aimed saber missing by a hair's breadth, and used his elbow to deflect the lower blade.
Before Han could recover, Blake's palm struck the youth's chest. It wasn't a heavy blow, but it was timed perfectly with Han's own forward momentum.
Oof!
Han was sent skidding back, his sabers crossing in front of him to maintain his balance. He looked up, stunned. "You... you didn't even use Qi."
"I didn't need to," Blake said. "You're fighting the wind. I'm fighting you."
Han growled and charged again, this time unleashing a flurry of strikes. Blake continued the dance—step, pivot, parry. He was using the weight of the iron vest from the previous day as a mental anchor. Without the vest, his movements felt effortless, his 1st-layer body responding with a crispness he hadn't felt before.
He saw the opening—a slight overextension in Han's left shoulder. Blake's fingers snapped out like a snake's tongue, striking the pressure point at Han's wrist.
The saber clattered to the floor. Blake followed up with a shoulder-check that sent Han tumbling off the granite platform.
"Winner, Blake!" Goren announced, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Blake stepped off the terrace. He didn't look at the cheering crowd. He looked at his hands. He felt the internal energy—the 1st-layer Vital Essence—pulsing with a new kind of vitality. By refusing to use the Battle Spirit, he was forcing his meridians to widen and his Qi to become denser.
The matches continued. Jace won his bout with a series of brutal, earth-heavy kicks. Meiling, the quiet girl, dismantled her opponent with a fluid, water-like style that left the other disciple gasping for air.
By midday, only twenty disciples remained. The atmosphere was electric. The instructors were no longer just watching; they were taking notes.
"Next match: Blake vs. Jace!"
Jace walked onto the terrace, his face set in a grim expression. He didn't smile or boast. He had seen Blake's first match, and he knew that the "wanderer" was something different.
"I won't be as easy as Han," Jace said, sinking into a deep horse-stance. His 2nd-layer aura flared, the air around him shimmering with a brown, sandy hue.
"I hope not," Blake said.
Jace moved with the power of a landslide. He didn't use flashy footwork; he used raw power. His kicks shattered the surface of the granite, sending small stone chips flying. Blake found himself forced to use his Steel-Skin to absorb the impact of Jace's heavy strikes.
Thump. Crack. Thud.
The exchange was brutal. To the spectators, it looked like a battle of attrition. Jace was a hammer, and Blake was the anvil. But Blake was watching. He noticed that every time Jace delivered a "Heavy Treading" kick, he had to take a split-second to reset his breathing.
Blake waited. He took a heavy blow to the ribs—the pain sharp and cold—but he didn't flinch. As Jace pulled back for his final, decisive kick, Blake struck.
He didn't hit Jace. He stepped onto Jace's planting foot.
It was a simple move, but at 2nd-layer speeds, it was devastating. Jace's momentum was instantly turned against him. He tripped, his body twisting in mid-air. Blake caught Jace's arm, pivoted, and used a "Gale-Redirect" technique he had adapted from his childhood.
Jace slammed into the granite, the wind knocked out of him. Blake stood over him, his hand poised for a finishing strike.
"Yield," Blake said.
Jace looked up, gasping for breath, and finally nodded. "Yield... I yield."
Blake helped him up. "Your power is great, Jace. But your breath is your anchor. Don't let it drift."
Jace stared at him, a newfound respect in his eyes. "You... you're a monster, Blake. A quiet one, but a monster."
Blake was now in the top ten. He had earned his three hours in the Cloud-Library. As he walked toward the Great Hall of the Academy, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It wasn't the thrill of the "Reaper's Harvest." It was the satisfaction of a craftsman who had used the right tool for the job.
Instructor Goren walked beside him. "The library contains the 'Cloud-Drifting Manual.' It's the foundation of our sect's movement. If you can master even the first stage in three hours, you'll be ahead of most Inner Sect disciples."
"I'll do my best," Blake said.
As they entered the cool, quiet halls of the library, the Divine Reaper pulsed one last time in his chest, almost as if it were curious. Blake ignored it.