A month had passed since the first night in the barracks.

  The days were longer now—end-spring sun climbing higher, casting longer shadows across the southern yard. The mornings no longer bit at their skin the way they once had. Instead, sweat found them faster. Muscles remembered drills before the orders were even given.

  For the trainees, soreness had become background noise. Exhaustion, routine. What hadn’t faded was the quiet certainty that they were changing—inside.

  Each morning came with some new layer of strength, or stillness, or control. The kind of change that didn’t show in mirrors, but in breath. In instinct.

  The training court had been cleared. No rings. No dummies. Just flat dirt and sun overhead.

  Captain Shen Kaizen stood at the center, arms folded behind his back. He looked—as he always did—like someone carved the word "discipline" into stone and taught it how to walk.

  Eight blindfolds hung from one arm. He tossed them at their feet without ceremony.

  “Put them on.”

  They obeyed.

  The cloth blocked out the world in an instant—light gone, depth vanished. Sound and scent became louder. Someone’s foot scraped the dirt. Someone else cleared their throat.

  “You’re cultivators now,” Shen said, voice calm. “You’ve shaped your core. You’ve channeled through your limbs. You’ve touched the element that echoes your nature.”

  A pause.

  “But you haven’t yet learned how to listen.”

  Footsteps circled them. Dust shifted.

  “Qi is not just power. It’s presence. It leaks from the body like heat from a forge. Sometimes gentle. Sometimes crushing. Always there.”

  The ground shifted again. No one moved.

  “Your task is to find me. Blindfolded. No sound. No help. Just feel.”

  They remained still.

  Nozomi adjusted her stance subtly, knees bent.

  Xo exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

  Lei tilted his head slightly, like trying to catch a whisper.

  Shen’s voice came from behind them now. “Begin.”

  Nothing.

  At first, it felt like trying to listen underwater. The world was distant, smothered in cotton.

  Then something stirred.

  Pressure. Faint. A shift in air that didn’t belong to wind.

  Liu stepped forward once, cautiously. His boot met no resistance, but he stopped, sensing something that made his heartbeat slow.

  There.

  A weight just to the left—like the air had thickened. A presence without shape, just... more.

  Kiri lunged in that direction.

  A second later, he hit the ground with a grunt.

  Shen’s voice was dry. “Too eager.”

  A flicker of Qi expanded across the court—just enough to be felt. Not seen. A soft static pressing against skin and bone.

  Jin twitched. Her head turned. She didn’t move her feet.

  Nozomi tracked it carefully, slowly shifting her balance toward the edges of the circle.

  Then—movement.

  Not footsteps. Not wind.

  Just weight, relocating.

  Xo stepped forward. Then again. The Qi trembled on the edge of his senses—solid, coiled. Familiar.

  Another rush of pressure flared, sharper this time—then vanished.

  “Wrong direction,” Shen said.

  Someone cursed under their breath.

  It went on like that—failing, adjusting, reaching without reaching.

  Eventually, the blindfolds were removed. Faces shone with sweat. Most had dirt on their hands or knees. No one had caught the Captain.

  He stood unruffled at the far side of the court, arms still folded.

  “You won’t find someone like me,” he said, without boast. Just fact. “Not yet.”

  He let that settle.

  “But you’ll learn to feel them. You’ll learn to sense the shape of presence.”

  He gestured to their stances. “You’ve started. I adjusted my aura to help. Next time, I won’t.”

  A breeze passed through the yard. Leaves rustled on the high wall.

  “You all carry weight now,” Shen said. “That weight leaks. Walk into a village, and people will feel it. That means you’re dangerous.”

  He turned toward the steps.

  “And that means you need to control it. That’s next.”

  — Lei —

  We were given a short break. Not long enough to rest. Just enough to remember we were tired.

  The blindfold still sat folded in my hand, soft and warm from my skin. I’d felt something earlier—barely. A shift in the air. A presence that wasn’t mine. But it came and went like breath in fog. I’d reached for it. Too slow. Too vague. Gone.

  I hated guessing.

  Captain Shen stood across the courtyard again, silent as stone, arms crossed. The others murmured quietly. Kiri was stretching his wrists like this was a game. Liu was quiet, brows drawn, the corner of his mouth tense. Xo cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, like he was getting ready to lift the ground itself.

  I tied the blindfold again. Tighter this time. Let the world vanish.

  Nothing.

  Then—something.

  I forced myself to breathe.

  Slow. Deep. Rooted.

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  Qi perception wasn’t seeing. That’s what Huo had said earlier, in his gruff way. It was feeling. Like sensing the temperature of a room without touching anything. The world around me wasn’t empty—it was just quiet. Too quiet to hear without leaning inward.

  I focused on the pressure in the air. The weight. The subtle dissonance.

  And then I felt it.

  A pulse.

  Like a heartbeat against the soles of my feet.

  Not sound. Not heat.

  Weight.

  Captain Shen’s presence wasn’t just there—it towered. Not like a bonfire. Not like a mountain. Like a lighthouse. Blinding. Controlled. A fixed point in a world without sight.

  I turned toward it. I felt it slide sideways—not walking. Just shifting his stance. His weight dragged the space around him like a stone dropped into silk.

  I stepped forward. Slowly. Quietly. I could feel him watching, waiting. The pressure flickered—shrinking slightly.

  He’s adjusting it. Letting us feel him. A test.

  Another step.

  I raised my arm.

  A sharp crack! snapped across my knuckles. I hissed and stepped back, teeth clenched.

  “You reached too early,” Shen said from somewhere ahead. “The moment you feel is not the same as the moment to act. Perception is not about chasing. It’s about reading.”

  Another flicker of pressure. Closer now.

  Someone to my left stumbled. Another crack! followed.

  He was everywhere.

  Everywhere and nowhere.

  Each time I thought I’d found him, he shifted just enough—let his aura bloom like a signal flare, then blinked it out before my hand could catch its edge.

  “Perception is not about chasing,” he said. His voice moved again. “It’s about reading.”

  Another trainee shouted in surprise—probably Miri—and got a sharp thwap! for her trouble.

  I moved again. Not toward him. Around him. Like tracing a shadow’s edge with my palm.

  Pressure tightened.

  Closer.

  Then something brushed the back of my shoulder.

  Too slow.

  A light snap of the stick tapped my ribs—not painful. Just humiliating.

  “Good effort,” he said. “Bad direction.”

  I turned my head slightly. Still blindfolded. Still burning.

  But something was beginning to make sense.

  I could feel his weight now—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the wind would come before it touched skin.

  I wasn’t there yet.

  But I was close enough to know what closeness felt like.

  The sun was already high when the blindfolds returned the next day.

  Dust swirled in lazy spirals across the southern yard, kicked by soft wind and restless feet. The recruits stood in two lines, silent, blunted weapons in hand.

  Instructor Huo paced between them, calling names from memory now. The formalities had faded. The bootcamp had worn most of us into soldiers, or close enough.

  Captain Shen Kaizen stood near the sparring circle, arms folded behind his back. He didn’t speak unless necessary, but the air around him said everything: no mistakes today would go unnoticed.

  “First match,” Huo called. “Kiri Huang.”

  Kiri stepped forward with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His blindfold was already tied.

  “Versus Liu Shen.”

  Liu followed, quieter, his twin hooked blades glinting faintly as he turned them once in his hands before tying the cloth across his face.

  A long pause. A few quiet breaths.

  Shen’s voice cut the stillness.

  “Three clean touches to win. No Qi projection. No breaking distance. Use perception. Move with control.”

  He stepped back.

  “Begin.”

  The first blow came fast.

  Liu shifted his stance, low and rooted—but Kiri moved like wind, smooth and sliding in from the left. The flat of his short blade tapped Liu’s shoulder before the fire cultivator could even raise his guard.

  “One.”

  A single word from Huo. Sharp. Clear.

  Liu’s grip tightened, and this time he didn’t wait. He struck outward in an arc—but it passed through empty air. Kiri was already gone, feet quiet as silk, weight flickering across the dust.

  Tap. This time against Liu’s thigh.

  “Two.”

  He turned sharply, almost too fast, his Qi flaring just a bit in frustration. His breath hitched.

  Kiri said nothing, but I could see the smirk forming at the edge of his mouth.

  I hated watching him lose. Liu’s not flashy. He’s not fast. But he’s solid, he trains longer than anyone, his footwork is precise, he listens.

  But right now, he’s being made a fool.

  I’ve sparred with Kiri before. At family events, at noble gatherings, in the soft gardens of people who drink wine while others bleed for their land. He’s quick, yes—but that’s not what wins him matches.

  It’s the way he moves like he’s already sure he’ll win.

  Confidence like a blade.

  Liu strikes again—wide sweep, good reach—but he’s half a second behind the pressure. He’s reacting, not reading. Kiri slips under the arc, steps inside.

  Tap. Right between Liu’s shoulder blades.

  “Three.”

  It’s over. Just like that.

  Liu pulls off his blindfold, his face unreadable. Not angry. Not ashamed. Just… still. Kiri lifts his own and gives a shallow bow. Not mockery. Just manners. But that smile’s still there—tucked just at the edge, like a page he hasn’t turned yet.

  Huo doesn’t speak. He just waves the next pair forward.

  Liu walks back toward the line. I catch his eye.

  "Lei Shui," Huo says, voice like stone.

  "Against Bao Renshu."

  There’s a small noise from somewhere behind me—one of the recruits sucking in a breath. Of course. Bao the Mountain. If there’s anyone on this island harder to move than him, I haven’t met them.

  I rise slowly and walk forward, collecting the practice sword from the rack. It’s heavier than I like, slightly dull along the edge, the grip worn smooth from years of use.

  I’ve held blades before. I was taught, as nobles are—by tutors with stiff backs and sharper opinions. But I never enjoyed it. Swordplay felt like performance. Polished gestures wrapped in ceremony.

  Still… I know enough. And today, this isn’t about the blade. This is about Qi. I tie the blindfold in silence and the world disappears.

  The sound of feet shifting against dust. A breath. Then nothing.

  I reach inward. Slow. Steady. I don't try to see Bao. That won’t work. He's too still. Too solid. He doesn’t press forward with his aura. He holds it like a fortress holds silence. So I search for the absence. The place where the world bends inward.

  There.

  A slight density to the left. Low. Heavy. I move in that direction—but not too fast. Let him think I’m blind. I Stop. Turn. Let the weight shift toward me before I move again.

  I feel it just before the sword crashes down.

  I raise my blade, clumsy, barely catching the blow on the flat side. The shock runs through my arms like iron against bone.

  He's strong. But not fast. I circle.

  He doesn’t chase. He's centered—unshakable. Every step he takes feels like he’s giving the earth permission to hold him.

  I adjust my grip. My left foot brushes the edge of the ring. I feel a flicker of pressure behind me.

  Faint.

  He’s moving now. Slowly.

  I duck under the pressure, pivot wide. Swing—not to strike, but to test.

  Steel rings against steel.

  I push harder, feint low, shift my weight. His sword drops, almost effortlessly—his block as casual as breath.

  Then I reverse, turning the momentum inward, twisting around the clash. I reach up, and—

  Tap.

  The flat of my blade catches his arm just above the elbow.

  “One.”

  A breath passes. Dust rises between us. He shifts again.

  This time I hear it before I feel it—his step heavier, closer, dragging pressure behind it like a cloak.

  I sidestep, but too late.

  His sword smacks against my thigh.

  “Even.”

  We reset.

  And for a while, it’s just rhythm.

  I move faster now—driven by instinct more than technique. My sword doesn't glide. It scrapes. Bao doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stagger, but he misses. Once.

  And that’s all I need.

  I duck low, slide beneath his reach, and twist my blade up to meet his ribs—lightly.

  “Two.”

  His aura shifts. Barely.

  He’s learning, too.

  The final point comes by accident. Or instinct. Maybe both.

  He advances again—stronger this time, pressing harder. I feel it rising in front of me like a tidal wave. I don’t back away. I don’t try to parry.

  I step to the side, plant my foot, and swing short and sharp across his back.

  “Three.”

  Match over.

  I pull off the blindfold and exhale.

  Bao stands there, calm as ever. He nods once, slow. Not in defeat. Just acknowledgment.

  He didn't lose because I was better.

  He lost because I read him just before he finished reading me.

  By late afternoon, the dust had settled—literally and otherwise.

  Xo had faced Jin in the third match. It was a slow, quiet duel, more like a stalk than a clash. Shadow met earth in silence. Neither spoke. Blades didn’t clash much, but Qi stirred like tension in a closed room.

  When Xo finally struck the last point, it was with a flat sweep of his arm that knocked the air from Jin’s lungs—but not her pride. She bowed once and returned to her squad without a word.

  Then came the final match.

  Miri against Nozomi.

  It wasn’t close.

  Nozomi moved with the precision of someone who saw movement before it happened. Blindfolded or not, her strikes were deliberate, smooth, unshowy. She didn’t play. She didn’t perform. She ended it.

  Three clean touches.

  No wasted energy.

  Miri, for once, had no quip on her tongue when it ended.

  They left the training ground in a loose group, boots scraping stone, weapons slung or carried. Sweat clung to collars and wrists. The sun hovered low now, painting long shadows through the compound walls.

  The air still carried heat.

  So did the conversation.

  “That was ridiculous,” Miri muttered, voice tight. “The blindfolds must’ve been uneven. Mine was tighter.”

  “Your face looked tight,” Nozomi said without turning her head.

  Miri stopped walking. “Excuse me?”

  Nozomi did stop.

  She turned, one brow raised. “Do you want to try again without the stick?”

  Kiri, ahead of them, sighed and kept walking. Jin did the same.

  Behind them, Xo laughed once—short, deep.

  “Well, if it makes you feel better,” he said, strolling up beside Miri, “you looked fast.”

  Miri glared at him. “I was fast.”

  “You were,” he agreed. “Just not fast enough.”

  Nozomi turned away before the smirk hit her face.

  Miri didn’t respond. Not out loud. Just picked up her pace and passed them, jaw tight.

  They walked in silence for a while after that.

  Liu and Lei were talking quietly at the front. Xo trailed near the back with Nozomi, arms crossed, relaxed.

  “You don’t talk much when you fight,” he said.

  Nozomi shrugged. “I don’t see the point.”

  “You fight like you mean it.”

  She glanced at him.

  “You don’t?”

  Xo smiled faintly. “Oh, I do. I just like saving my effort for people who need a beating.”

  She didn’t smile back, but something eased in her shoulders.

  Ahead of them, the barracks door came into view. Lights were being lit for the evening. Another day down. Another test passed. Another lesson burned into muscle and memory.

  They hadn’t won anything official. But the Pandas had earned something.