Zhang Shuren admitted to himself that he may have underestimated Jiang Tian.

When he'd first offered to teach the boy some basic fundamentals of Qi manipulation, he had expected frustration, resistance, perhaps even another bout of the boy's infuriating stubbornness. Instead, Jiang had attacked the exercises with a grim, single-minded focus that was almost unnerving. He absorbed every correction, every piece of advice, without complaint, practising for hours on end with a relentless diligence that bordered on obsession.

It wasn't so much that he thought Jiang wasn't a hard worker – if nothing else, his determination in tracking down the bandits that took his family was an indication of how far he'd push himself – but, well… if the level of progress Zhang had seen over the last day or so was any indication, why hadn't anyone at the Sect seen it?

The question was a persistent, irritating splinter in the otherwise smooth logic of his worldview.

It wasn't the only irritating thing about their current situation. Zhang shifted uncomfortably on the fallen log he was seated on. The ground was cold and damp, his robes had picked up the persistent smell of woodsmoke, and breakfast was a wild animal roasted over an open flame. It was… rustic. He had better supplies, of course, a proper tent and fine, preserved rations tucked away in his spatial ring, but as a matter of principle, he refused to indulge in luxury while his companion slept on the ground.

Even if Jiang himself seemed utterly indifferent to the conditions, sleeping as soundly on a bed of pine needles as Zhang did in the finest inn.

Now the boy sat across the fire from him, chewing through a strip of jerky with casual disinterest. Zhang mirrored him, forcing down the same leathery rations. The taste would have been tolerable, if one enjoyed salt and gristle. He decidedly did not. Still, principle demanded he eat what Jiang ate. He would not grant the boy the satisfaction of seeing him retreat to finer fare while his companion endured hardship.

What struck him most, however, was not the food, but the shadows. They writhed at Jiang's feet in restless coils, flickering in and out of shape with the idle precision of a man drumming his fingers on a tabletop. It was unconscious, Zhang realised — Jiang wasn't even looking at them. That kind of instinctive control should have taken months of practice under strict supervision. Here, it was as natural to Jiang as breathing.

Zhang chewed slowly, forcing himself not to scowl. How could such talent have gone unnoticed at the Sect? Elder Lu had claimed the boy as his responsibility, but had seemingly done nothing with him. No special instruction, no resources. Most elders would have fought each other to cultivate such a promising seedling. For Elder Lu to simply… leave him floundering among the outer disciples made no sense. Unless, Zhang reasoned, the elder had intended something else for him. Some other purpose, some plan that had been cut short.

He let out a quiet breath, shaking off the thought. Speculation served nothing. Zhang pushed the political games from his mind and focused on the present. When they finished eating, they both wordlessly began cultivating, filling their Qi reserves for the day's travel. At the pace they were travelling, they would reach Qinghe before nightfall, so it wasn't technically necessary to have full Qi reserves – but it was still a good habit to get into.

The world narrowed to the steady flow of Qi through his meridians, the cool draw of spiritual energy from the air into his dantian. He spun the energy into a thread, feeding it through his pathways until it reached the meridian he'd been working on clearing for the last six months – the barrier between himself and the eighth stage of the first realm.

A flicker tugged at his senses. Subtle at first, then stronger. Zhang's eyes opened, narrowing across the fire.

Jiang's shoulders were tense, his brow furrowed, sweat beading across his forehead despite the cold. The shadows at his feet had deepened, pooling unnaturally dark against the snow, tendrils creeping outward as though reaching hungrily for more.

Surely not.

Zhang watched, stunned, as Jiang's spiritual presence deepened, solidified, and then crested like a wave, breaking through an unseen barrier with a surge that sent a tremor through the ambient Qi.

The breakthrough was over as quickly as it had begun. The fire returned to its normal height. The air lightened. But the change was undeniable.

The sixth stage of the Qi Condensation Realm.

A flicker of something hot and sharp twisted in Zhang's own gut. Envy. It was an ugly, unfamiliar sensation, a response unbecoming from a cultivator watching a junior break through to the next stage of their cultivation. Still, he couldn't help the reaction. His own path had been one of rigorous, painstaking effort, every step earned through years of relentless discipline. Jiang was simply… doing it. A peasant hunter, who had first set foot onto the path of cultivation less than six months ago… surpassing what others bled for in years.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Zhang smothered the hot twist in his chest before it could take root, but the echo of it lingered. Talent was a resource. The Sect's purpose was to cultivate it, not resent it. And this boy was talented, there was no denying it.

Across the fire, Jiang's eyes opened. He let out a slow breath, the tension draining from his shoulders as he rolled his neck to work out a kink. There was no sign of triumph on his face, no elation at his sudden advancement. He looked, to Zhang's immense irritation, exactly the same as he had five minutes ago.

A breakthrough to a new stage was a momentous occasion, the culmination of countless hours of diligent practice and unwavering focus. It was a moment to be savoured, to be analysed, to be treated with the reverence it deserved.

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Zhang cleared his throat, forcing his own expression into one of polite acknowledgment. "Congratulations on your breakthrough, Junior Brother Jiang. A significant achievement."

Jiang just shrugged, his gaze already drifting towards the path south. "It was going to happen sooner or later," he said, as if commenting on a change in the weather. He pushed himself to his feet, already kicking snow over the fire's embers. "We should get moving if we want to reach Qinghe before dark."

The casual, almost dismissive, nature of the response was so profoundly disrespectful that for a moment, Zhang was speechless. It wasn't just the lack of gratitude or the absence of proper decorum. It was the complete and utter lack of reverence for the path itself. Jiang treated this incredible gift, this blessing from the Heavens that others would fight and die for, as a mere stepping stone on the way to his true goals.

He fought to keep the frustration from his voice, his own words coming out clipped and tight. "Indeed. We should."

Before he let his irritation get the better of him and cause him to say something… unsuitable for a cultivator of his station, Zhang turned and began walking south. Jiang fell into step beside him, the earlier tension settling into a quiet, focused rhythm.

For the rest of the day, they moved in silence, the only sound the crunch of their boots on the frozen ground. As they travelled, Zhang watched Jiang out of the corner of his eye. The boy wasn't just walking; he was practising. The shadows at his feet were in constant, restless motion, stretching and contracting, twisting into the crude, wavering shapes of squares and circles he'd been fumbling with the night before.

Finally, as the afternoon light began to fade, Jiang let out a huff of frustration. Zhang opened his mouth to offer some advice, but closed it after a moment's hesitation. No. Better for the boy to learn to ask for help, rather than simply having it offered. He ignored the quiet part of his mind asking if he was being a little petty under the guise of creating a learning opportunity. He ignored it.

"Don't suppose you have any ideas on how I can get this to work?"

The question almost startled Zhang – he had expected at least a few hours of stubbornness before the boy decided to ask for help.

"That is because you are approaching it incorrectly," he said, keeping his tone even. "A shadow is not just an absence of light; it is a passive expression of Yin-aspected Qi. To give it form, you must not simply command it from the outside. You must infuse it with your own active Qi, weaving your spiritual energy into its core to grant it temporary substance."

…Theoretically, at least. In fairness, Zhang's own forays into learning how to control his fire worked in much the same fashion, so while he wasn't entirely sure that it was the same with shadows, it was at least plausible.

Jiang stopped, turning to look at him. "Was I supposed to understand any of that?" he asked dryly.

Zhang resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You are approaching the shadow like something external that needs to be controlled with your Qi," he simplified. "Like… a puppet. Instead, you need to merge your Qi into the shadow – then controlling it will be as simple as controlling your Qi."

Well, no, actually, it wouldn't, but such was the nature of simplified explanations. Really, it was close enough to give the boy an idea of how to approach the problem – and besides, this sort of free-form manipulation was the work of decades, so by the time Jiang ran into any problems caused by the inaccuracies, he would have a better understanding anyway.

Jiang grunted, then turned to observe his shadow thoughtfully.

"Honestly, you are wasting your time trying for something like this anyway," Zhang pointed out, unable to help himself. His pride wouldn't let him be a purposefully poor teacher. "Your affinity gives you a natural command over shadow, but you lack the structure of a proper technique – and the stability that it brings. A single, dedicated technique would be far more efficient. One that focused your Qi into the shape of a sword, for instance. The structure of the art itself would handle the infusion, making it stronger and more stable."

"And what if I learned to make a sword, then one day I need an axe?"

"There are trade-offs," Zhang acknowledged, "But such is the nature of life. You don't expect that learning a single technique will solve all of your problems, do you? As with all things, balance is required. If you find yourself frequently needing an axe, either learn a specific technique for it, or simply bring one along with you."

Jiang didn't seem convinced – but then, Zhang didn't particularly expect him to. It was something all young cultivators needed to come to terms with: that sometimes, learning a new technique was not the answer. Techniques were powerful applications of Qi, certainly, but they took time and effort to learn. Often, that was worth it – time had a very different meaning to a cultivator – but often, there was a simpler, more mundane solution.

Jiang turned away without another word, his focus returning to the deep, still shadow cast by a cluster of frost-covered boulders. He closed his eyes, and Zhang could feel the subtle shift in the air as the boy drew on his Qi.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the shadow stirred – at first, it seemed no different to the flat, two-dimensional shadows Jiang manipulated – but then it… thickened, almost, gaining a kind of depth and slowly peeling away from the ground.

Zhang gaped.

The shadow rose higher, forming a column of writing darkness. It was an unstable, chaotic thing, tendrils of shadow coiling and spilling from the main form like smoke. Even with the usual difficulty of sensing shadow-aligned Qi, Zhang could tell that a significant amount of the Qi used was being wasted, but despite that…

Somehow, this infuriating boy had grasped the core principle of free-form manipulation all but instantly.

Then, Jiang's brow furrowed in concentration. The very tip of the shadowy tendril began to coalesce, the smoky, indistinct edges pulling inward, tightening, becoming less a shadow and more a solid object made of shadow. It was still a crude, malformed thing, like a lump of poorly forged iron, but it was no longer formless.

Jiang opened his eyes and, with a deliberate, focused motion, jabbed the solidified tip of the shadow tendril into a nearby snowbank.

It left a mark. A small, shallow indentation, but a physical one. The tip held its solid form for another heartbeat before the entire construct collapsed, dissolving back into a harmless, flat shadow on the ground.

Zhang stared, genuinely speechless. It was supposed to take years.

From his discussions on the topic with Elder Yan, he knew at best it should take months trying to achieve this level of materialisation, and that was with the aid of focusing arrays and detailed instruction scrolls. Jiang had taken a single, simplified explanation of the barest fraction of the theory, and, within minutes, produced a tangible, physical result. It was crude, fragile, and inefficient, but it was real.

He thought of his own training, the endless hours spent trying to achieve a similar, basic result with his fire, the frustration of hundreds of failed attempts. Jiang had just done it while walking down a road. This wasn't just talent; it was an unnatural, instinctual grasp of the very building blocks of cultivation. It dawned on him, then, all at once.

Zhang was not looking at an undisciplined junior anymore.

He was looking at a force of nature taking its first, clumsy steps.

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