Later that evening, Leo stood alone in his assigned cultivation chamber.
The room was elegant in its simplicity—smooth stone walls etched with flowing glyphs, a glowing essence lantern suspended in the corner, and a wide meditation platform at the center surrounded by low shelves of pristine manuals. Every surface hummed faintly with qi, like the air itself was alive.
He wandered slowly, fingertips brushing across the neatly arranged tomes. Most were elemental cultivation guides, foundational breathing techniques, or essence flow charts.
But one book stopped him.
It rested in an obsidian cradle, bound in dark leather with silver script etched across the cover.
"Threefold Path of the Spear."
Leo picked it up, a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. The moment his fingers touched the cover, a pulse of recognition surged through him—like the spear strapped across his back responded to the book's presence.
He opened it carefully.
The first page was handwritten in elegant, calligraphic ink:
The spear is not a weapon. It is a question.
Each strike asks: 'Will this path lead to death or salvation?'
Leo's eyes widened.
He flipped deeper into the manual, the pages crisp and ancient, yet untouched by time. The script within was fluid, almost alive, flowing like the very essence of the spear. As he read, it felt less like instructions and more like truths whispered through the parchment.
The first section spoke of Grasping Intent. It described the earliest step—the point where the spear begins to respond to its wielder not just as a tool, but as something more. At this stage, the manual explained, the wielder may catch glimpses of possibility: the flickering threads of motion, reaction, and consequence. These paths could be seen, briefly, in moments of clarity or desperation. But the connection was unstable. Imperfect, and only accessible through focus or danger. Yet even in its fragility, it was powerful. A single glimpse could decide life or death.
Leo nodded slowly. That was what I felt against the minotaur. I saw the thread—but only because I reached for it.
The next section delved into Mastering Intent. Here, the paths no longer had to be summoned—they appeared on their own. Instinct eclipsed thought. The spear became an extension of the body, and the wielder moved not by planning, but by truth. Every action was correct. Every motion inevitable. It was no longer the warrior who guided the spear, but the spear that guided the warrior. There was no hesitation—only flow.
Leo swallowed knowing he need to at least reach that level by the end of this damned tower
Then he reached the final section—and paused.
One With the Spear.
The tone of the writing changed here—more reverent, more cautious.
Few, the manual warned, ever touched this level.
At its peak, intent becomes something more: spear force. It is not the ability to find a path. It is the ability to create one. When there is no opening, the strike makes one. The resistance of the world—air, stone, even fate—yields to this will. The page described it not as instinct, but dominion. An overwhelming presence that bent reality to the will of the spear.
Leo's breath caught.
To not just see the outcome—but shape it.
His fingers lingered on the edge of the page, thoughts churning. He wasn't there yet. Not even close.
But now he understood what he had touched.
And he wanted more.
Leo turned the page, expecting philosophy or vague metaphors.
Instead, he found structure.
The next section of the manual was precise—etched with diagrams and annotated forms that showed footwork, stances, breath patterns, and spear arcs in exacting detail. The ink almost shimmered with clarity, as though each stroke had been made with a blade rather than a brush.
Grasping Intent, the page began, is the only stage of intent that can be trained through fixed motion. It is not instinctive. It is not subconscious. It is born from repetition, awareness, and cultivated presence.
Leo's eyes scanned the rest hungrily.
The drills were listed as sequences—"Thread Steps," "Veiled Thrust," "Threefold Flow"—each meant to simulate the feeling of pressure, timing, and momentary openings. The manual emphasized that the practitioner must not simply repeat the forms, but observe each motion. Watch for the flicker. The moment where something wants to reveal itself.
He stepped away from the table and into the center of the chamber.
There was just enough room to move freely. He drew his spear, the familiar weight comforting in his grip, and turned to the first form: Thread Steps. A short series of angled foot placements, paired with shallow forward thrusts.
He moved slowly at first, mimicking the illustrated motions.
Then again.
And again.
By the third repetition, something stirred in the back of his mind—an itch of memory.
The footwork. The pivot into the thrust. The slight recoil at the end of the motion to reset. He'd done this before.
Eldrin.
Leo froze mid-step, eyes widening.
These were the same movements Eldrin had taught him—cruder, less refined, but the foundation was identical. That training in the pit wasn't just basic spear work. He was preparing me for this.
He lowered the spear, his breath uneven.
A warmth bloomed in his chest—not the rush of qi, but a quiet, affirming recognition. He knew. Eldrin knew I had potential to reach intent.
Leo exhaled slowly.
He reset his stance.
This time, he didn't just follow the motions—he watched for the pulse behind them. The subtle pressure in the air. The friction between possibility and action.
The form ended. He started again. Then again.
By the fifth repetition, the room felt different—lighter. Tensed.
And for a moment, just a breath of time—
The paths flickered.
Not many. Not clear. But they were there.
Leo smiled, sweat already dotting his brow.
He had a long way to go.
But now, he had a method.