The training ground had changed.

  Gone were the practice dummies and balance beams. In their place: a wide, empty square of bare earth, and a stillness that seemed to press down from above.

  The recruits stood in two uneven rows, the sun hanging low behind them, casting long shadows across the stone.

  Instructor Huo Renshi was not a patient man.

  He paced before them in dust-scuffed boots, a weathered sword strapped to his hip, and eyes that had clearly seen too many pupils fall apart before they ever came together.

  “All right, kids,” he barked, hands behind his back. “Welcome to your first cultivation lesson.”

  His tone dropped—gravel rough, but calm.

  “All of you have been chosen because the Empire thinks you’re special. Because you touched a crystal and it glowed pretty.”

  He stopped and turned, lips curling just slightly.

  “But let me make something clear.”

  His voice sharpened.

  “Right now, you’re not worth more than a shitless pile of flesh and bones.”

  Not a single recruit shifted.

  “That glow meant you have a seed. That’s it. A fragment. A hint. And now we’re going to try and nurture it into something that won’t shatter the first time you taste real battle.”

  He pulled something from his pouch and held it up.

  A stone, cut in a sharp, irregular shape, glowing faintly with pulsing blue lines of Qi.

  “This,” he said, “is a skill stone. Rare. Expensive. And smarter than most of you.”

  The recruits leaned slightly forward.

  “It holds the memory of a technique. If you sync with it, you’ll learn the move. Simple. Clean.”

  A few of them glanced at one another. Kiri’s eyes lit up. Nozomi’s narrowed. Lei stayed still. Xo frowned.

  “The squad that excels in training will each receive one. And the individual who impresses the most? Gets one too.”

  That got their attention.

  He gestured toward the group with his chin.

  “I’ve seen enough to split you.”

  He pointed, not waiting.

  “You. You. You. And you.”

  Lei Shui. Nozomi. Liu Shen. Xo Kola Qin.

  “The rest of you—other squad.”

  Instructor Huo snorted. “Name yourselves. You’ve got five minutes. After that, we train.”

  Kiri made a little bow. “Tiger squad, I assume.”

  Miri raised her fist. “Raaawr.”

  Bao just nodded. Jin said nothing.

  “Predictable,” Xo muttered under his breath.

  Liu scratched his jaw. “What about Phoenix Squad?”

  “Too noble,” Lei said.

  “Too mythological,” Xo added. “Phoenixes don’t exist. Not anymore.”

  “Wolf Squad?” Liu offered.

  Nozomi tilted her head. “Better. But still trying too hard.”

  “We could go with something thematic,” Lei said. “We have Earth, Fire, Water, and Shadow. Four pillars. Four spirits.”

  “Spare me the poetry,” Xo grunted.

  “How about Dragon Squad?” Liu offered lightly, not seeing the sharpness that cut through Xo’s stillness.

  Lei stiffened.

  Xo’s head turned just slightly. “You want to die?”

  Liu blinked. “What?”

  “You call yourself Dragon Squad,” Xo said, his voice low, “and you’re claiming the title of the Emperor’s personal guard. That name isn’t taken lightly. It’s given. Or...”

  His pause was weight, heavy and cold.

  “...punished.”

  A brief silence fell over them.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Nozomi, crouched nearby, ran her fingers through the dust. “We don’t need to be dragons,” she said softly. “They’re already in power.”

  “What about something the Empire would laugh at?” Xo said, eyes narrowing. “Something they’d never expect to see rise?”

  “Snakes?” Liu offered.

  “Rats?” Lei added dryly.

  There was a beat of silence.

  Then Xo said it. “Pandas.”

  Nozomi looked up at him. “Pandas.”

  Lei raised a brow. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Exactly,” Xo said.

  Liu let out a rare sound—it might’ve been a chuckle. “Soft fur. Hidden claws.”

  Nozomi grinned, just a little. “Let them laugh.”

  “They’ll remember it,” Xo said.

  Lei rolled his eyes. “Fine. Panda Squad.”

  “Confirmed,” Xo replied.

  And just like that, it was done.

  When they returned, Instructor Huo raised a brow.

  “Two squads,” he announced. “Tiger… and Panda.”

  The Tiger Squad looked collectively bemused.

  “Adorable,” Jin said under her breath.

  Instructor Huo let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Better than Phoenix.”

  “Now. As your core forms, you’ll feel a rush—like fire under your ribs, pressure in your blood. That’s normal. But energy won’t just sit there. It wants to move. And you have to tell it where.”

  He began to pace slowly, the initiates sitting around him.

  “Sink it into your skin and bones—you’ll get tougher. Into your muscles and nerves—faster, sharper, more agile. Into your organs and blood—you’ll endure. Put it into your mind and senses—you’ll react faster, see more. Or pull it inward—into your core—to expand your energy pool and control.”

  He turned and looked each of them in the eyes.

  “This decision will shape your path. So ask yourself now: Do you want to strike fast and hard? Defend others? Keep your allies alive?”

  “Choose wisely.”

  Nozomi sat still as stone.

  The dust beneath her knees was hot, and the sweat clinging to her back had started to cool. But all of it faded as she sank into herself.

  She didn’t hear the training ground anymore. She heard only her own breath. One. Two. Three.

  She focused—not on the world, but on the space within her chest, the emptiness she’d always known was there.

  The energy came slowly. Not a blaze. Not a flood. A coil of shadow, curling around her spine. Soft. Cold. Relentless. Then the seed stirred. She didn’t fight it. She invited it. And in that moment, it ignited.

  Her breath caught. A sudden rush of Qi surged through her veins like she’d swallowed lightning.

  She clenched her teeth—pain radiating out from her chest to her fingertips. Her hands trembled. Her legs nearly buckled beneath her.

  Her muscles burned. Not from fatigue. From change. Reflex took over. She guided the current.

  First, into her legs, her shoulders, her arms. Muscles and nerves.

  Then into her center. Deep behind her navel, where her core was forming like a coiled star. Channeling.

  The pain shifted into clarity. Her limbs felt light. Her stance more grounded. Her balance—perfect. As if her body had recalibrated. Every breath now fed the new center inside her, that pulsing vortex of energy, quiet and alive.

  When it stopped, she wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Only that something had changed. Not on the outside. But within.

  She stood slowly. Her legs shook once. Her hands flexed, tighter than she expected. Faint wisps of darkness slipped from her fingertips, curling like smoke before fading.

  Instructor Huo saw.

  He stepped closer this time. “Quick to listen,” he said. “Good. First to ignite doesn’t mean first to fall. Remember that. You chose agility and control. Not the safest path—but a deadly one, if you survive long enough.”

  Then louder, to the rest:

  “Take example from your comrade.”

  “When your core forms, don’t just sit there drooling. Get up. Go rest. You’ll feel like you’ve been torn in half—and you have. That’s the aftermath of growth.”

  “Let it be a reminder: you don’t push through a breakthrough in battle. You survive until you can grow again. Understood?” The other initiates, still deep in their meditations, didn’t answer.

  Nozomi didn’t wait.

  She walked toward the mess hall, breath shallow, her steps strange—not weak, just new.

  In her chest, beneath skin and bone and scars, the core pulsed.

  I’m not done growing. And they’ll never see me coming.

  Lei sat with his legs folded beneath him, spine straight, eyes closed. The stone beneath him still held the heat of the day, but it barely touched him. His breath came slow and even—measured, refined, like every part of him had been shaped for discipline.

  Around him, the other recruits shifted—soft rustles, shallow breaths—but he paid them no mind. He never had.

  Instructor Huo’s voice echoed faintly from across the courtyard, explaining the nature of Qi and the pathways of awakening. Lei didn’t need the explanation. He had studied the theory, memorized the scrolls, repeated the breathing cycles behind locked doors and shuttered windows.

  But this was different.

  This was no exercise in philosophy. This was his body. His mind. His future. What if he fails to awaken? What if he becomes Shui’s lineage failure?

  He quickly pushed the thought aside and focused.

  He reached inward—toward that quiet place behind the heart, where the seed of affinity was said to rest. And there it was. Faint. Still. Like the surface of water before the first drop falls.

  It didn’t burn. It didn’t pull.

  It simply existed—patient and silent. He reached for it—not with force, not with desperation, but with permission.

  And it stirred.

  Like a single drop of ink in clear water, the energy began to unfurl. Not violent, but not soft either. It slipped into him like cold light—steady and deliberate. It tested the shape of him.

  For a moment, he felt weightless and grounded at once, as if his entire being was suspended between two truths.

  Then came the pressure. Not pain, but presence. Like every nerve in his body had begun to listen. His fingers curled slightly. His breath caught in his throat.

  He guided the flow toward his center first. Always the center. Behind the navel, the core began to form—steady, pulsing, folding over itself with each breath. Tighter. Denser. Brighter.

  He felt the pressure build—Qi collecting like water behind a dam.

  Then another wave rose—toward his head, through his spine, into his skull, behind his eyes, down his arms to his fingertips. A current of clarity. It hummed in his bones.

  His senses sharpened. The breeze he hadn’t noticed before brushed past his face, and suddenly he could hear the faint breath of a recruit three meters away. The rustle of a sleeve. A heartbeat not his own.

  His thoughts remained still. Focused. Cold. The energy didn’t distract—it aligned. It settled into his mind like rain soaking into dry earth.

  This, he thought, was the foundation. Not power. Not speed.

  Precision. Awareness. Mastery. Freedom.

  And when the last thread of Qi found its place, he exhaled.

  Not a gasp. Not a shudder.

  Just release.

  He opened his eyes. The world looked different. Sharper. Light reflected off stone in crisp angles. He could almost see the chaotic, untamed energy drifting off the other recruits—raw and uneven.

  His own? It was held close, coiled like river water behind a dam of glass.

  Instructor Huo stood beside him, watching.

  “Lei. Core and mind,” the instructor said. “Ambitious. Dangerous if unfocused.”

  “I’m not unfocused, Sir,” Lei replied. His voice sounded different—quieter, steadier, like the air around him had shifted to make room for him.

  Huo gave a single nod. “Go rest. You’ve stepped off the shore. The current will carry you for a while. Don’t fight it.”

  Lei rose. No stumble. But a slight shift in balance—a recalibration. His body felt different. Realigned. Every movement resonated.

  He passed the others without looking—Nozomi already gone, Xo still as stone, Liu unmoved. His steps were quiet. Deliberate. He didn’t rush.

  He didn’t need to. Something fundamental had changed.