Feiyin stood in the open courtyard behind the cabin, his saber resting lightly in his grip. The air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of other disciples training, the rhythmic clashing of blades, the occasional burst of inner strength colliding against practice dummies. He ignored all of it, letting his breathing slow, his focus narrowing to the blade in his hands.

  The saber had been with him for years now, forged by his own hands in the earliest days of his practice in artifact refinement. It wasn’t the best weapon in the sect, not by a long shot, or even the best weapon that he made, but it was his. The weight of it was familiar, an extension of his arm, something he could wield without thought. And yet, it was still incomplete.

  His father’s voice echoed in his memory.

  "A weapon is only as strong as the intent behind it. A blade without intent is nothing more than a piece of sharpened metal."

  He exhaled, steadying his stance. The techniques he had learned from the knowledge hall, the footwork, the angles, the sequences—they were useful, but secondary. He could practice forms for decades, but without intent, they would never be anything more than mere movements.

  Intent.

  That was the true foundation of mastery.

  His father had spoken of it often, drilling the concept into him during training. At the time, Feiyin had understood it as a vague notion, an abstract principle about presence and focus. But now, after years of refining his skills, of honing his perception through oscillation, he understood that intent was more than just will—it was a force of its own.

  The three internal harmonies—born in the heart, shaped by the mind, fueled by the body.

  The inner heart was where all action began. It was desire, the simple decision to move, to act. It was what spurred the mind into action.

  The inner mind was the layer above. It was subconscious, instinctive. It was what allowed movement to happen without thought, to bring a cup of water to one’s lips without actively thinking about it. It’s what made a master’s blade seem weightless, as if it knew where to go before the mind commanded it. It was the reason why a true swordmaster could strike without hesitation, cutting what they wanted to cut while leaving untouched what they did not.

  And finally, there was inner strength, the energy that connected it all, the force controlled by the mind that harmonized movement with the intent born in the heart.

  Feiyin had spent years refining his control, sharpening his oscillation sense, but he had yet to truly manifest his blade intent. He could feel glimpses of it in his strikes, moments where the blade cut effortlessly, where the world seemed to align with his will—but they were fleeting, inconsistent.

  He raised his saber.

  The steel gleamed under the dim light filtering through the clouds. It was unremarkable at a glance, but to Feiyin, it carried the weight of his experiences. Every scar on its surface, every imperfection, was a reminder of his journey.

  He took a slow breath and stepped forward.

  The movement was fluid, precise. His blade swung in a clean arc, slicing through the air with a controlled ease. He wasn’t aiming for power. He wasn’t aiming for speed.

  He was aiming for control.

  The first stroke was simple, a downward cut. He pictured a slab of steel before him, imagined the resistance of its unyielding structure.

  The blade passed through cleanly.

  Another step, another swing—this time, he imagined a block of tofu. Soft, yielding.

  The blade stopped just before impact, hovering a hair’s breadth from the imaginary surface.

  Feiyin’s eyes narrowed.

  Not enough.

  His father had spoken of the highest level of blade mastery, the point where one could cut through what they wanted to cut and leave untouched what they did not. It wasn’t just about sharpness or speed. It was about resonance, about aligning the blade’s intent with the wielder’s will.

  He swung again, refining his focus.

  The steel split.

  The tofu remained whole.

  Again.

  And again.

  The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the training field as Feiyin and Yue moved in tandem, their bodies weaving through a practiced routine of footwork and evasion.

  Their movements were different, yet complementary.

  Yue, with her lynx beastkin heritage, was naturally agile—her footwork light and unpredictable, her bursts of speed explosive. She was an expert at maneuvering around opponents, using her speed to slip past defenses before striking at an opening. Her body flowed like water, quicksilver grace and efficiency honed over years of movement training.

  Feiyin, on the other hand, was not lacking in speed, but his approach to movement was far more controlled. His steps were deliberate, each one calculated to maximize efficiency, utilizing the smallest shifts in weight and momentum to remain balanced at all times. His oscillation sense granted him an uncanny awareness of his surroundings, allowing him to adapt to an opponent’s rhythm in real-time, predicting movements just before they happened.

  It was this difference that had drawn him to train with Yue in the first place.

  He remembered when she had first brought back a movement technique from the Saint Body Branch’s collection in the knowledge hall. At the time, she had spent weeks refining it into her natural combat style, her body adapting fluidly to the technique as if it had always belonged to her.

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  Curious, Feiyin had joined her training, not to mimic, but to adapt.

  Their first sparring sessions had been pure chaos. Yue had darted around like a flickering shadow, barely allowing Feiyin a moment’s reprieve before closing in from a different angle. Despite his solid fundamentals, her erratic, unpredictable movements had forced him to adjust constantly.

  But then, he began to listen.

  To her footfalls against the ground.

  To the minute oscillations that traveled through the air with every shift in her weight.

  To the subtle shifts in momentum when she prepared to attack or evade.

  And that was when he started countering her speed—not by matching it, but by controlling the flow of their exchanges.

  Yue’s style was one of constant movement, slipping past an opponent’s defenses. But Feiyin’s approach was different—he sought to redirect that very movement, subtly adjusting his positioning and timing so that his opponent’s own speed became their downfall.

  Their spars turned into a battle of two philosophies—agility versus control.

  Yue would attack with bursts of speed, seeking an opening. Feiyin would read the rhythm of her movements, adjusting his stance at the last second to intercept or deflect. She would retreat, recalibrating. He would step in, cutting off her escape routes.

  It was through these relentless battles that he refined his movement techniques, incorporating what he learned from her into his own style. By understanding how to react to speed rather than blindly trying to match it, he had turned his oscillation sense into a weapon not just for perception, but for flowing with battle itself.

  Now, in the present, they circled each other once more.

  Yue darted forward with a burst of speed, but Feiyin’s eyes caught the telltale oscillation of her weight shifting. He stepped in, cutting off her angle, forcing her to alter her trajectory at the last second.

  She clicked her tongue. “You’ve gotten way more annoying to deal with.”

  Feiyin smirked. “That means it’s working.”

  She feinted left before pivoting sharply, her golden eyes gleaming. “I just have to get faster then!”

  Feiyin adjusted accordingly, his body already reacting to her shift in weight, a counterstrike prepared.

  But he had to admit… there was something exhilarating about this.

  About adapting. Learning.

  Evolving.

  Bai Yu slithered up onto Feiyin’s shoulders with a practiced ease, its now-thicker body wrapping comfortably around his torso, resting its head atop his shoulder as it often did. It had become a familiar weight over the years—one Feiyin found reassuring.

  The small, frail snake he had once picked up in the dark caverns, abandoned and struggling to survive, had grown into something magnificent. From the thin, barely two-foot-long creature it had once been, Bai Yu had now stretched to over five feet, its once-delicate frame thickening with strength. Its scales, once dull and brittle, had gone through multiple shedding cycles, becoming gleaming and smooth—an iridescent white, like polished jade, reflecting the light with a sheen of quiet elegance.

  Feiyin reached up and ran a hand along its scales, feeling the sturdiness beneath his fingertips. "You’ve grown a lot," he murmured with a faint smile.

  Bai Yu flicked its tongue in response, nuzzling into Feiyin’s jawline with the cool touch of its snout before coiling loosely around his arm, its weight evenly distributed. It wasn’t just larger—it was smarter, more aware. Over the years, it had gone from a simple companion to a true partner in battle.

  Feiyin recalled the effort he had put into Bai Yu’s growth. Though he had no intention of joining the Spirit Beast Branch, he had studied their methods, digging through their available knowledge in the exchange hall. Understanding how to nurture Bai Yu had become just as important to him as refining pills or forging weapons.

  When he had first started reading through the beast-taming manuals, he had expected complex, mystical techniques. But what he discovered was much simpler and more intuitive—beasts, unlike human cultivators, did not rely on deliberate training to grow stronger. Their strength came from two primary factors: their bloodline and their diet.

  Bloodline was something that could not be changed. A powerful lineage could allow a beast to grow into an apex predator with minimal effort, while a weaker bloodline required external nourishment to advance.

  Diet, however, was something Feiyin could control.

  Seeing this, he had dedicated himself to ensuring Bai Yu’s steady progression. It wasn’t just about feeding it whatever was available—he carefully selected its meals, ensuring it consumed high-quality first-class beast meat. At first, Bai Yu had struggled to digest such rich sustenance, its body unused to such potent nourishment. But Feiyin gradually adjusted its portions, ensuring it adapted over time.

  Eventually, he had gone a step further—experimenting with pills meant to nurture spirit beasts.

  Using what he had learned from the Saint Alchemy Branch, he modified basic formulas from the Beast Taming Branch, creating supplements that would strengthen Bai Yu’s body, reinforce its meridians, and enhance its natural instincts.

  The results had been clear.

  Bai Yu had rapidly advanced from an unranked beast to a peak first-class beast, on the verge of stepping into the second-class.

  What had once been a small, fragile creature barely capable of hunting rats was now a predator capable of taking down first-class beasts in the wild. It had developed an instinctual awareness of battle, syncing with Feiyin naturally whenever they hunted together.

  One of the most remarkable changes was how intuitive their teamwork had become.

  During hunts, Feiyin didn’t even need to give direct commands. The bond they had formed—strengthened by time, trust, and shared battles—allowed Bai Yu to move in harmony with him.

  Like the way a seasoned swordsman instinctively knew how their blade would move, Feiyin knew how Bai Yu would react. He would shift his weight, and Bai Yu would coil tighter around his arm, ready to strike. He would exhale sharply, and Bai Yu would uncoil, launching itself toward an enemy at the perfect angle.

  They were a single unit.

  Not just master and beast.

  Family.

  It was something Feiyin had never expected when he had first picked up the wounded snake years ago. Bai Yu had never been a pet to him—it had always been something more.

  And Bai Yu, in turn, had come to view Feiyin as its own. It was no longer simply following him out of gratitude or dependence. It had chosen him.

  There was an unspoken bond between them, something far deeper than words.

  Feiyin sat near the training grounds after their latest hunt, Bai Yu draped over his lap, basking in the warm sunlight. It had just eaten, and as was its habit, it curled itself comfortably against him afterward.

  He absently stroked its cool, smooth scales as he stared out into the distance.

  "You’re going to need more soon," he mused aloud, watching as Bai Yu lazily flicked its tongue.

  Second-class beasts were not simple creatures. They were stronger, faster, and often had elemental affinities. For Bai Yu to take that next step, regular first-class meat wouldn't be enough anymore.

  He would need to find higher-quality resources. Maybe modify the beast-nurturing pills further.

  Feiyin exhaled softly, fingers tracing the familiar ridges of Bai Yu’s scales.

  "You’re going to outgrow me soon," he murmured, amused by the thought.

  Bai Yu, as if sensing his mood, suddenly lifted its head, flicking its tongue against his cheek before settling once more.

  Feiyin smiled, warmth settling in his chest.

  No matter how much they grew, no matter how much stronger Bai Yu became, that bond would always remain.