The next morning, Yan Qiu sat down with his parents at the table.

  "I want to go to the Barched Wind Sect directly," he said. "I will travel to Dusthaven first and gather information about how to reach the sect, then go from there."

  His father set down his bowl. "That is a long journey."

  "I know. I will need coins for the carriage to Dusthaven, and more for whatever comes after." He paused. "I will train here for two months, save what I can, and leave when I am ready."

  His mother looked at his father, and his father looked back at her. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

  "You are sure about this?" his father asked.

  "Yes."

  "And if you fail again?"

  Yan Qiu met his father's eyes. "Then I will come home and try something else. I will not make you sell anything more."

  His father rubbed his jaw, thinking. His mother reached over and placed her hand on his arm.

  "Let him try," she said quietly. "He has already come this far."

  His father sighed and nodded. "Fine. But you will write to us. Every few days, if you can."

  "I will."

  Training his body was simple.

  The book described the exercises clearly: running, lifting stones, holding stances. The first stage of Flesh Forging focused on the legs, so he ran laps around the village before dawn, climbed the hills behind Blackroot, and squatted with heavy rocks on his shoulders.

  The villagers sometimes watched him, and a few nodded while others shook their heads.

  He ignored them and kept training.

  The problem was the sword. He had no sword, no teacher, and no idea how to learn since the book said nothing about weapon techniques. His father only knew how to gather herbs and chop firewood, and the village hunters used bows and traps.

  He did not know what to do.

  A courtyard stretched out before him, paved with white stone and surrounded by walls of carved jade. A boy stood in the center with a wooden sword hanging loosely from his hand, and an older man in grey robes stood across from him with his arms folded.

  "Young master, it has been three months since we started. You still have not learned the basics."

  The boy yawned. "Why should I? I can just order someone else to fight for me."

  "And if they refuse?"

  "Then I will have them punished." The boy scratched his ear. "This is boring. I want to go eat."

  The instructor's jaw tightened. "Young master, there may come a day when no one is there to fight for you. When you must defend yourself."

  "That will never happen."

  "It might."

  The boy rolled his eyes. "Fine. If I learn this, will you stop bothering me?"

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  "If you reach basic competence, yes."

  "Then teach me the simple parts. I have things to do."

  The instructor sighed and picked up a wooden sword from the rack beside him. "Very well. Take your stance."

  The boy lifted his sword lazily, holding it like a stick.

  "The most important thing is footwork," the instructor said. "Until you reach the stage where you can gather qi, your body is your only weapon. Footwork determines whether you live or die."

  "Just show me."

  The instructor moved. His feet shifted in a pattern, smooth and precise, and his sword followed the motion of his body. Step, slash, step, thrust, step, sweep. The movements flowed together.

  "This is the first form of the Broken Jade Sword Art. Watch carefully."

  The boy watched with half-closed eyes, already thinking about the meal waiting for him.

  Yan Qiu woke with a gasp.

  His chest was burning, and he pressed his hand against his chest to feel his heart pounding.

  Another dream.

  He lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling. The courtyard, the instructor, the lazy boy with the wooden sword.

  Why do I keep dreaming about that child?

  The dreams came without warning, showing him scenes from a life that was not his own, a pampered boy who had everything and appreciated nothing.

  Who was he?

  The dream was already slipping away and the instructor's face was gone, but he remembered the footwork and the pattern of steps.

  The first form of the Broken Jade Sword Art.

  He did not know why he remembered that name when everything else was fading. He lay back down and did not sleep for the rest of the night.

  The next morning, Yan Qiu went into the forest and found a straight branch about the length of a sword.

  He stripped the bark and smoothed the edges with a stone, then stood in a clearing and tried to remember what he had seen. He lifted the stick and tried to copy the footwork, but his feet tangled and the stick wobbled in his grip.

  He tried again.

  For the first few days, he just practiced the footwork: step, shift, step, turn, over and over. He fell more times than he could count.

  Some villagers saw him practicing, and a few children giggled while two old women whispered behind their hands.

  He did not care.

  His hands grew calloused from gripping the stick, and the training made him hungry all the time. His parents could not afford three meals a day.

  So he hunted.

  He set snares in the southern forest, the simple kind his father had taught him. He caught rabbits and squirrels, skinned them, and brought the meat home.

  His mother was standing by the stove when he walked through the door. She turned and saw the rabbits in his hands, the blood on his fingers, and her face crumpled. She covered her mouth and looked away, but he could see her shoulders shaking.

  "Qiu, you do not have to—"

  "I want to," he said. "Let me help."

  She did not argue, but she held him for a long time before she let him go.

  After the first week, he started combining the footwork with the sword movements: step, slash, step, thrust, step, sweep.

  The motions were clumsy at first since his feet moved one way while his arms moved another, but he kept practicing.

  By the second week, the movements began to connect, and by the third week he could perform the first form from beginning to end without falling.

  It was not good, but it was something.

  Two months passed.

  Yan Qiu stood in the clearing one last time and ran through the first form. When he finished he was breathing hard, but he had done it.

  He walked back to the village and found his parents waiting outside the hut.

  His mother pressed a small pouch into his hands. "For the carriage. And for food on the way."

  "Mother, I cannot take—"

  "You can and you will." Her voice was firm. "We saved it while you were training. Do not argue."

  His father stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Qiu. Stay healthy. Do not push yourself too hard." He paused. "If it does not work out, come home. We will figure something else out."

  Yan Qiu looked at them both.

  "I will write to you," he said. "Every few days."

  "You better," his mother said, and pulled him into a hug.

  His father joined them, and for a moment the three of them stood there together.

  Then Yan Qiu picked up his bundle and walked toward the road where the carriage was waiting.

  He did not look back.

  "This year's batch from the outer provinces seems to be performing exceptionally well, Sect Master."

  The old man in white robes nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the reports spread across his desk. "And the sect disciples? How are they progressing?"

  "Poorly, I am afraid." The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "Those who came through the village trials have shown little promise, and even the ones who came directly to the sect are not much better. The only disciples worth mentioning are from esteemed families or trained under masters before joining us."

  "I see."

  "Shall we adjust the selection criteria?"

  The Sect Master was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "No. Continue as we have. Talent can be found in unexpected places." He looked up. "Sometimes the ones who struggle the most become the strongest."

  The younger man bowed. "As you say, Sect Master."