The sun had already climbed when Wei Ran returned to the hilltop.
The breeze was gentle, brushing the grass in waves.
The scroll lay open before him, swaying in the wind like it shared in his hesitation.
Qi Palm.
The last of the three techniques—and the furthest from reach.
"If the Step moves the body, and the Fist directs the Qi..."
He re-read the old ink.
"...then the Palm expands it."
With Qi freshly gathered after an hour of meditation, Wei Ran stood.
His breath deepened.
He drew Qi through his meridians.
Opened his hand.
Struck the air.
A ripple burst out—silent, but visible in the grass a few meters ahead as it bent slightly from the force.
Wei Ran blinked.
But then came the recoil.
His Dantian pulsed—tight, nearly empty.
"One strike…" he whispered. "And most of my Qi is gone?"
He dropped back into meditation.
Another hour passed.
The second attempt brought a stronger wave. But again, the cost was brutal.
He recovered. Waited. Tried a third time.
This time, the Qi scattered mid-flow, and he dropped to one knee, breath ragged.
"That's three strikes," he muttered.
"All my Qi, drained."
His Dantian could hold half a day's worth.
He had refined all of it across four hours.
And three palms had burned through it entirely.
It wasn't just cost.
It was weight—of power he couldn't yet wield.
He looked down at his open hand, fingers trembling.
"I'm not ready for this one."
"Not yet."
He closed the scroll with care.
That's when he noticed it—the final section.
The ink older. More deliberate.
A drawing of a sword stance.
At the base of the scroll, almost like an afterthought, a final technique had been etched in careful, tight strokes.
Sword Form – Basic Flow
For Rootless without foundation. Combine breath, footwork, and steel. One form. One breath.
Wei Ran narrowed his eyes.
There was no diagram of Qi flow. No meridian chart.
Just posture. Motion. Rhythm.
Then, he remembered.
"You'll need this more than you think," Old Zhen had said, handing him a cloth-wrapped bundle before Wei Ran left.
He reached into his pack.
Unwrapped the cloth.
Inside lay a sword.
Simple. Worn. The guard dulled, the scabbard scuffed.
But the blade—when drawn—gleamed with a careful edge.
It had been sharpened not once, but dozens of times.
The kind of care given to a tool used every day.
Wei Ran stood, gripping the hilt.
It felt light. Familiar, somehow.
One form. One breath.
He mimicked the stance on the scroll—feet aligned, hips low, blade pointed slightly down.
Then moved.
Slowly.
The blade flowed in an arc.
Not fast. Not flashy. But clean.
He inhaled.
Let his foot slide forward.
Exhaled as the blade cut through the air with a quiet hiss.
That was the first motion.
He reset. Again. And again.
It wasn't just about hitting a target. It was about understanding the space between motions—how the sword connected to his breath, how his feet pressed into the earth. The world didn't vanish when he moved. It leaned closer.
After the twentieth repetition, he paused.
Then, a thought.
What if I pushed Qi through it?
He returned to stance. Gathered Qi—not much. Just a thread.
Sent it toward his arm, down to the hilt.
Struck again.
Nothing.
The blade moved, but the air was unchanged.
He sat, breathed, gathered again.
Waited longer this time. Slower. More refined.
On the fourth attempt, the grass near the edge of the blade trembled.
Just slightly.
Wei Ran's eyes lit up.
The sword hadn't glowed. There was no flash, no thunderclap.
But something shifted.
Qi had obeyed.
Not forced. Not flung.
Guided.
He repeated it—again and again—letting the Qi settle into the metal, letting the sword respond like a partner.
Between sets, he meditated. Drew more Qi. Recovered.
The process was slow—but clear.
This was what made him different.
He couldn't summon fire or fly through the sky.
But when he moved, every thread of Qi answered.
Pure. Precise.
Even in the simplest form, it showed.
The blade was no longer just steel.
It had become an extension of his breath.
Of his intent.
Of his will.
Not through force—but through clarity.
And when the wind shifted and night neared, he stopped—not because the training was done, but because something else called.
Time to say goodbye.
The sun had dipped behind the trees when Wei Ran returned home.
His steps were slow, not from doubt—but from weight.
He crossed the crooked gate one last time.
The house smelled of cooked rice and oil lamps. Faint warmth still clung to the clay walls. His father sat by the table, sharpening a small blade. His mother folded linens in the corner. Neither spoke at first.
Wei Ran stood in the doorway.
"I'm leaving tonight," he said softly.
His mother's hands stilled.
His father didn't look up.
Silence stretched long enough to tighten his chest.
Then, his father spoke.
"I've already lost one child."
His voice was rough—not angry. Just tired.
"I don't want to lose another."
His mother turned, placed a hand on his father's shoulder. Her voice was gentler.
"Wei Ran isn't leaving to be lost."
She stepped forward, resting her hand gently on his cheek. Looked him in the eyes.
"You'll bring her back to us," she said. "No matter how long it takes."
Wei Ran's throat tightened. He nodded once.
Then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.
"I will."
His father reached under the table, pulled out a small cloth pouch, and tossed it into Wei Ran's hands.
"Ten copper. Enough to reach the ninth floor. To eat. To ask the right questions."
Wei Ran gripped it tightly.
"Thank you."
He bowed to both, deeply.
And without another word, turned to the door.
The sky outside had turned indigo. A single star blinked above the trees.
He stepped into the wind, sword on his back, scroll tucked under one arm, the cracked hairpin secure beneath his robe.
The path to the ninth floor was long.
And beyond that—the unknown.
But Wei Ran didn't hesitate.
Each step forward was a promise.
To himself.
To his sister.
And to the family still waiting for her return.