— Xo —

  It was the first time we all sat at the same table.

  Not because anyone said we should. There were no speeches. No plans. Just four trays placed one after the other, boots dragging the same tired rhythm, and shoulders that didn’t mind sitting shoulder to shoulder.

  The mess hall was quieter than usual. A long day tends to wear the bark off people. Most of the noise came from further down—Tiger Squad, as usual, holding court near the hearth like they’d invented swords and compliments.

  I didn’t care about them.

  Tonight, the only voices I heard clearly were closer.

  Nozomi sat across from me, sleeves rolled, hands steady as she separated the fatty bits from her bowl of pork and radish. She hadn’t said much since the fight with Miri, but she looked... lighter. Not smug. Just a little taller inside her own skin.

  Liu sat at the end of the table, arms folded, his tray already empty. He ate like he trained—efficient, disciplined, and a little joyless. But there was something easier in the way he leaned back. Less tight in the jaw.

  Lei sat next to me, legs crossed at the ankles, picking through his rice like it owed him answers.

  He was the one who broke the silence.

  “Well,” he said, chopsticks pausing midair. “I suppose it wasn’t entirely a disaster.”

  I snorted. “You saying that because you won?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m saying it because you won. Thought you were going to plant yourself in the dirt and wait it out.”

  “I almost did,” I said. “Jin’s quiet. Almost didn’t notice her.”

  “She moves like a shadow,” Liu said. “Doesn’t even breathe like the rest of us.”

  “I noticed,” I muttered, rubbing the bruise just under my collarbone.

  Nozomi looked up at me, one brow raised. “Did she get through your armor?”

  “Almost,” I said. “Felt like she struck the silence between heartbeats.”

  That earned a small huff from her. I think it might’ve been a laugh. Hard to tell with her.

  Lei tapped the side of his tray, looking at each of us. “Still. Four matches, three wins. It could’ve been worse.”

  “Could’ve been better,” Liu said. “I let Kiri run circles around me.”

  “You’ll get him next time,” I said.

  Liu blinked. “You think so?”

  “No,” I replied. “But it’ll make you feel better.”

  This time, even Nozomi laughed—quiet, through her nose, but real.

  It felt like nothing, sitting there. Bowls half-full. Shoulders slouched. Arms too sore to gesture properly.

  But there was something solid in the silence between words. Something that hadn’t been there before.

  A rhythm. A thread.

  A sense that, if pushed tomorrow, each of us would be able to stand beside the others and not feel alone doing it.

  Lei finished his rice, set his tray aside, and leaned back.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “we may not be the Empire’s worst mistake after all.”

  Nozomi shot him a look. “Bold talk from someone who nearly tripped on his own sword this morning.”

  He gave a tired grin. “I said it was the wrong grip.”

  “Sure.”

  Liu raised his cup. “To Panda Squad.”

  We stared at him. He shrugged. “It’s a dumb name, but we’re stuck with it.”

  I reached forward, picked up my own cup, and knocked it against his.

  “Better than Tiger Cub Daycare,” I said.

  And just like that, the tension from the yard bled out of our shoulders.

  The mood in the training yard had changed once again.

  It wasn’t in the drills. Those were the same—hard, repetitive, grueling. It wasn’t in the instructors, who barked their orders with the same discipline and stone-faced menace as always.

  But there was something in the way the two squads watched each other now. A tilt of the chin. A flick of the eyes. Comparisons were being made.

  And for the first time, the instructors encouraged it.

  They called it “situational application training.” But it was more than that. This wasn’t about footwork or weapon grip.

  This was about what each soldier brought to the battlefield.

  Instructors Huo and Captain Shen gathered both squads in the inner court, sun beating hard against the stone. Their uniforms were dusted with the red clay that never truly came off skin or cloth, and behind them, a dozen leather-bound scrolls were placed on a low bench.

  Shen spoke first.

  “You’ve all awakened. You’ve trained. You’ve learned the basics of channeling and perception. Now you’ll begin learning what sets you apart—and what holds your squad together.”

  He gestured to the pile of scrolls.

  “These are skill scrolls—non-attuned. Meaning they are inefficient and basic, but universal. They can be used by anyone, regardless of element.”

  Huo stepped forward, arms crossed.

  “You get one.”

  A beat passed. A few heads tilted, surprised.

  “Each of you will be taught one skill. Once chosen, it’s yours to master.”

  “No trades,” Shen added. “No do-overs.”

  Another pause. The tension in the air thickened.

  Huo gestured to the scrolls. “The eight base skills. Read. Think. Choose wisely.”

  The scrolls had been marked with names, not explanations—at least not full ones.

  There were no ranks listed. No numbers. Just short, clipped summaries:

  Energy Strike.

  “Channel energy through weapon for stronger strikes. “

  Quickness.

  “Heighten reflexes using Qi.”

  Elemental Skin.

  “Form a protective energy layer on the skin.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Taunt.

  “Draw attention to yourself by pulsing energy outward.”

  Mending.

  “Channel Qi to mend wounds through contact.”

  Minor Cleanse.

  “Use elemental energy to dispel poisons or taint.”

  Stimulation.

  “Boost an ally’s control of Qi temporarily.”

  Disruption.

  “Interrupt the Qi flow of an enemy.”

  The Tigers conferred first.

  Kiri was already talking when the rest of them reached the scrolls. Miri stood with arms crossed, flipping her braid over one shoulder. Jin listened quietly, eyes flicking between each option. Bao said little, but when his finger landed on Elemental Skin, no one questioned it.

  Kiri took Energy Strike without hesitation. Miri claimed Quickness, muttering something about “not being shown up again,” and Jin looked at the remaining four for a long moment… then chose Minor Cleanse.

  That left the Panda Squad facing their half of the bench.

  For once, no one moved immediately.

  Lei glanced at the scrolls, eyes scanning the short lines of ink with practiced focus. His lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Mending makes the most sense for me,” he said. “If I’m going to keep supporting, I may as well commit.”

  Liu nodded toward one. “Taunt fits me. I already take the hits.”

  Nozomi crouched slightly to examine Quickness, fingers brushing the corner of the scroll.

  “This one,” she said. “Speed matters more to me than raw power.”

  All eyes turned to Xo.

  He didn’t speak for a long time. Then he took Elemental Skin without a word and tucked it under his arm.

  — Nozomi —

  The scroll made it sound simple.

  Channel energy through your muscles to increase reaction speed.

  That was it. One line. Like Qi was something you could coax like water into a bowl and just tell it to flow faster.

  I stood in the center of the southern ring, legs braced, hands clenched. Sunlight pressed down hard on my shoulders, sweat clinging beneath my collar. Around me, the others worked in their own circles—Lei practicing slow, precise gestures for Mending, Liu standing stock-still with his arms wide, trying to radiate presence for Taunt. Xo had already moved on to absorbing strikes from a padded dummy while Huo barked corrections at him.

  Me?

  I was still trying to feel something.

  The first few attempts had fizzled.

  I did everything the scroll described—focus the core, draw energy to the limbs, anchor it in breath and movement. But the Qi just slipped away like a blade deflecting off wet stone. No tension. No flow.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Again.”

  This time, I slowed it down.

  I closed my eyes, braced my feet, and found the thread of energy behind my navel. Familiar now—coiled, waiting. Like a predator asleep.

  I reached for it with purpose.

  Drew it higher, across my spine, into my shoulders.

  Down into my arms.

  Lower, into my calves.

  It felt sluggish at first, heavy.

  Then—

  A flicker.

  Not shadow. Not cold.

  Just raw, colorless Qi.

  It rushed through my limbs like smoke in a pipe, not enough to burn, but enough to pulse. My fingers flexed on instinct. My knee bounced, weight shifting forward like my body wanted to move without waiting for permission.

  I grinned, just a little.

  It was working.

  My body moved before I gave it permission—twist, step, pivot. Faster. Not lightning fast. Not elegant. But crisp. Clean.

  The edges of the world sharpened. Just a little. Then it faded again.

  I stood still, breathing hard. It hadn’t lasted long.

  I tried it again—easier this time. The thread came quicker, the pulse lighter. The more I focused, the more it answered.

  But it wasn’t enough. Not for me.

  I wanted more.

  I wanted mine.

  I crouched low, summoned the Qi again—but this time, I tried to shift it. Not just into my limbs, but into the shape of shadow.

  Something cold. Familiar.

  I remembered the way it felt during manifestation—like silk brushing the edge of flame, weightless but deep.

  I wrapped the energy in that thought. In memory.

  And the moment I did, it collapsed.

  The rush stopped. The speed died. My limbs dragged like lead.

  I scowled.

  “Couldn’t be that simple,” I muttered.

  Instructor Huo passed behind me, as if summoned by failure.

  “Don’t overreach,” he said without stopping. “Don’t ask water to boil before it has learned to hold shape.”

  I said nothing.

  But I tried again—this time keeping the energy plain, uncolored. And on the next step, it held. A clean surge. Not elegant. Not mine.

  But earned.

  I moved forward. Faster.

  Smaller steps, quicker pivots, a tighter center of gravity. It wasn’t graceful—but it was progress.

  And progress was all I ever trusted.

  — Xo —

  The courtyard stank of dust, sweat, and scorched mistakes. Even Bao, usually silent as stone, grunted once as his elemental skin absorbed a heavy strike—and cracked just slightly.

  “Too shallow,” he muttered. His first words all day.

  I nodded once from the sidelines. “Try channeling from the spine. Not the chest.”

  Bao gave me a glance. Then adjusted his stance, quietly.

  We’d been at it for hours, drilling the new skills burned into our bones off the scrolls. Eight of us, eight different ways to waste Qi before we learned how to use it right.

  I had Elemental Skin as well. Practical. Simple, in theory. A layer of energy pulled just beneath the skin—tough enough to soften a blow. The first time, it caught a strike clean. The second, it flickered but held.

  The third?

  The third time, the energy thinned halfway through the motion. The layer cracked under pressure. And I cracked with it.

  It didn’t hurt—not really. But something inside me went hollow. Qi drained like blood from a punctured jug, and I staggered back before the next strike landed.

  I crouched low, one hand on the ground.

  Empty.

  Not completely. But close enough to feel the edge.

  That’s when Captain Shen stepped in.

  “Enough.”

  Just one word, but everything stopped moving.

  Across the yard, the others stilled. Even Miri, mid-flip, froze with her braid in midair.

  “Sit,” Shen said.

  We sat.

  “Drink.”

  We obeyed.

  He let the silence settle before speaking again, his steps slow across the stone.

  “You’ve all lit your cores,” he said. “That was your Ignition. From now on, you’ll build layer by layer. Slowly. Carefully.”

  He turned slightly, his eyes moving across us—not with judgment, just calculation.

  “Your Qi will grow with time. It will refill on its own, yes—but not instantly. At your stage, you drain too fast. And you’ll feel it.”

  He looked at me—probably because I still hadn’t stood up.

  “You can’t fight when your core’s dry. You’ll shake. Fumble. Fail. If it breaks in the wrong moment, you die.”

  His tone was even. No drama. Just facts.

  “You’re forming your first layer now,” he went on. “With effort, you’ll build more. When you’re strong enough—and still alive—you’ll start to open your gates.”

  The yard stilled.

  Lei looked down at his hands, breath catching.

  When he was eight, he’d snuck into his father's study and found a journal—one written in an older hand, frayed along the spine, the ink smudged by time. A great-grandfather's words, maybe older.

  There was a line scribbled at the bottom of a page:

  "Opening the first gate revealed something unexpected. Water still flows... but light now follows."

  That line had never left him. Dual elements—was that real? Could officers, the powerful cultivators he’d trained beneath, actually wield more than one element? He wasn’t sure. But the line had been real. And now, the word “gates” wasn’t just theory. It was a direction.

  Lei straightened his back slightly. He didn’t speak. But he remembered.

  Shen kept walking. And Lei focused again.

  “Gates are milestones. Nothing more. You pass them, and the energy moves differently. Deeper. Wider. You’ll know when it happens.”

  He stopped near Nozomi and tapped her shoulder with the back of his hand—not harsh, just enough to mark the moment.

  “Most of you will get there eventually.”

  He didn’t elaborate.

  Everyone in the Empire had heard of those who went further. True monsters summoning volcanos, reshaping the lands for acres and not riding lightning but becoming it.

  “Right now, learn to hold what you’ve earned,” he said. “Learn to move with it. Learn to recover as well.”

  Huo grunted from the side. “And for the love of the ancestors, stop flinging it around like you’ve got a river inside you.”

  That got a few tired smirks. I didn’t bother.

  I leaned back against the stone wall and exhaled.

  My chest still felt hollow—but the pulse of Qi had started to return. Slow. Familiar.

  I closed my eyes and felt it coil again, faint as a whisper, behind the navel. That small, spinning weight that hadn’t been there before training started. The beginning of something.

  — Liu —

  There were no speeches that morning. Just the thump of boots against earth and the whistle of Instructor Huo’s staff as he slammed it into the center of the yard.

  “Today’s lesson is simple,” he barked. “You’ve learned to hit. Now we see if you can do it when someone’s hitting back.”

  Captain Shen stepped forward, arms folded.

  “You’ll spar in pairs. Three clean hits ends the round. No projection. No elemental tricks. Qi channeling allowed—if your core can handle it.”

  That last part was a warning more than permission.

  He turned toward the rest of us, his voice like a stone dropped in a well.

  “Xo. Liu. You’re up. Miri, Bao, you too.”

  My hands tightened on my hooked blades.

  I nodded once and stepped forward. Xo moved beside me without a word, guandao already in hand, heavy and gleaming dull under the morning sun. The blade looked oversized in anyone else's hands. On him, it looked like it belonged there.

  Across from us, Miri and Bao took their positions. She spun her light staff once and smirked.

  “Try not to blink, boys.”

  Xo didn’t reply.

  I looked at Bao, standing like a mountain. I gave a last glance to Miri, bouncing on the balls of her feet. I felt the heat in my core stir—not angry. Just ready.

  Instructor Huo raised a hand. Let it hang for a moment.

  Then dropped it.

  “Begin!”

  Miri vanished in a blur of speed, her staff whipping through the air in an arc I barely tracked. She went straight for me—predictable, maybe, or just confident she could finish me fast. I could feel the new speed she showed, the effect of Quickness. The raw Qi from her core.

  I raised one blade and caught the strike, sparks dancing from metal.

  I didn’t have time to answer.

  Bao came in behind her like a boulder in motion, forcing Xo to engage fast. Their weapons clashed, stone meeting stone, steel on haft.

  And then, Miri broke formation. She darted toward Xo’s blindside.

  I turned, calling out—too late.

  But Xo reacted fast. He didn’t swing his guandao.

  He let her come.

  And then pivoted.

  His blade caught her mid-charge. Not the edge, but the flat—but even the flat of a guandao carry the weight of a falling tree.

  CRACK.

  The sound made me flinch. Miri hit the dirt hard, her arm twisted under her body and her collarbone caved in.

  For a second, she didn’t move. Then she howled.

  Bao froze mid-swing, his face still unreadable. He stepped between Xo and Miri without a word, but the fight was over.

  Three hits? It had only taken one.

  Huo stepped in, waving sharply.

  “Match over!”

  Xo stepped back. He looked surprised by his own strength. He didn’t apologize.

  Kiri stormed forward from the edge of the ring.

  His expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes locked on Miri as she writhed, clutching her arm. Shen blocked him with one hand raised.

  “She’s bleeding.” Kiri growled.

  “Then she learns.” Shen answered.

  Kiri’s eyes flashed.

  Shen didn’t flinch. He looked back over his shoulder.

  “Lei.”

  Lei straightened from where he’d been watching near the water jugs. His expression was unreadable.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re a healer, aren’t you? Practice.”

  Lei hesitated only for a moment before nodding.

  Xo turned to me then, voice low.

  “Didn’t mean to hit that hard.”

  “She came at you full speed.”

  He look at the girl, “She always does.”