The Jun clan library held scents Jun Tian would never forget: ancient glue, yellowed parchments, the faint scent of ink reminiscent of rainy afternoons. On the shelves, the names of masters seemed to whisper advice as one passed. He had been there for months; so many that he knew every shadow of the place.
That evening, he closed the last volume. There was no celebration. There was no applause. Only the sound of the leather cover sliding across the table and the soft tinkle of the bronze bell the librarian rang upon receiving the book back. Jun Tian breathed. The words he had devoured returned like maps drawn in his mind. He felt richer, but in a quiet way—a silent fortune.
"Finished?" asked the librarian, Elder He, his eyes shining with a curiosity born of many years.
"Yes," Jun Tian replied unhurriedly. "I read everything there was."
The old man arched his eyebrow in surprise. For him, and for many, this was a small feat; for Jun Tian, it was just a stage completed. He clutched the book in his hands as if feeling the weight of a secret.
When he stepped out onto the street, the city went about its usual routine: vendors, children running, cooks finishing work. There was, however, a constant buzz in the air—Yun Xiang, the purple-talented prodigy, had made great strides. But Jun Tian sought no comparison; once the library was finished, another restlessness arose: his body and mind required experience that texts could not provide.
Thus began a new routine.
During the day, when he wasn't cultivating, Jun Tian sought other pursuits—small arts that would sharpen his mind and touch. He enrolled in a local chess set and, in the afternoons, would sit for hours against the elder at the square café, studying patterns. He learned the subtleties of Go from a passing Japanese merchant who taught for coins; He practiced betting arithmetic and logic in vocabulary games. It wasn't out of vanity—it was out of discipline: perceiving patterns, anticipating moves, training patience.
At these times, the town saw the young man as a kind dreamer, a boy who chose books and games over spears and ostentatious exercises. Occasionally, children nicknamed him "the lazy reader," and laughter came like wind. He let it pass. He learned to hear the world in the maps of the plays.
But the nights—ah, the nights were something else.
When the moon veiled the town, the Nine-Colored Lotus called him beyond the flesh. Not with audible words, but with a gentle tug on his soul: the Sea of Knowledge. It was a region of his inner space, a mental vastness where the liquid images of knowledge floated like luminescent fish. There, the Lotus transformed theory into practice.
The Sea of Knowledge wasn't just meditation; it was a training ground. On the spiritual surface were specters of weapons: swords, spears, staffs, daggers, even the bow, like shadows that shaped themselves with every thought. Under the Lotus's attentive guidance, Jun Tian learned the basics of handling them: position, balance, center of gravity control, how to project intention through the thread. There was no actual body injury—it was training of the soul and reflexes—but the effects were tangible: the meridians responded, the sense of space and range improved, coordination became faster.
The Lotus guided. First, fundamental movements: cutting the void with intention before moving the arm; blocking not with force, but with redirection of the flow. Then, imagined combats against shadows that adapted to his weaknesses. As he succeeded, the Sea of Knowledge offered variations: larger opponents, unpredictable movements, counterattacks. Each victory increased his confidence; Each mistake left a tiny rune etched into his spiritual sea—reminders to correct.
"Don't confuse technique with arrogance," the Lotus said, echoing calmly. "The sharpest blade is useless if the mind is sluggish."
Gradually, Jun Tian felt his body respond. It wasn't always easy to translate what he learned in the Sea into a physical body—so whenever he could, he practiced movements with a wooden sword at dawn, atop the rock. Steps, cuts, wrist turns; small physical rituals that wove the real world into spiritual training. It was a delicate seam: the real sword was weight, the spirit was guide.
While the city celebrated Yun Xiang's advancement and talk of the sect began to take shape, Jun Tian quietly grew in another direction: not only in power, but in experience. Chess had taught him foresight; Go, patience and long-term vision; the Sea, immediate reaction; the wooden sword, the feel of the blade.
One day, crossing the square, Yun Xiang passed him. She looked at him with her usual haughtiness, her lips curling into the venomous smile of someone often admired. She tried to provoke, speaking in that tone intended to be affable:
"Reader Jun, when will you stop playing with game pieces and pick up a real sword?"
Jun Tian just smiled calmly and didn't answer. Yun Xiang let herself go with a grimace, not for lack of desire to hurt, but for a surprise she herself didn't understand: someone had ignored her without even noticing. The minor affront burned her pride, and her allies whispered. The city loved such small social battles; for Jun Tian, it was a breeze.
And then came the night that interrupted everyone's rhythm.
As Jun Tian finished a blade exercise, a messenger arrived at the Jun clan gate: a simple emissary, bearing a seal from the city council. Gathered in the hall, the elders opened the scroll. The news: a Nascent Soul-level sect had announced its intention to visit the city—talent recruitment would take place soon. Rumors were already circulating—it was said that Yun Xiang was a clear target.
The hall murmured. Patriarch Jun Xiao frowned. For the family, it was both opportunity and risk. Discussions about alliances and the introduction of disciples took place. For Jun Tian, it was just another social event—until, that very night, his mother summoned him.
Beside a lit lamp, Gu Qingluo was paler than usual. There was something different: a contained glow in her belly. She held her son's hand lightly and called him aside in a low voice:
"Jun Tian… your brother," she said with forced calm, "is due soon."
Jun Tian listened. The world didn't stop. There was no internal celebration, just a knot of silence difficult to explain. He responded with his usual restraint:
"I understand."
The reason for summoning you? To prepare the house, to organize the clan, to notify the relatives. All political and practical. But for Jun Tian, at this point, it meant a new thread of responsibility. A new brother in a clan that viewed talent as merchandise and alliances.
Before closing in for the night, as he ascended to his room and entered the Sea of Knowledge, the Lotus glowed a more intense color.
"Four years," murmured the Lotus. "Don't force them, Jun Tian. Grow like the root: deep, invisible, and unbeatable."
Jun Tian nodded. He felt the night wind beating against the window, heard the distant celebrations for Yun Xiang, and thought of everything he had learned—from the board to the blades, from the silence of the bookshelves to the noise of the squares. All of it would now be part of a body and mind that needed to be whole.
He closed his eyes. He allowed the Sea of Knowledge to lull him. The spiritual swordplay had ended that night with a clean cut in the air—a lesson learned. And in his chest, the Lotus spun calmly, a patient guardian.
As the city fell asleep, the full moon tested the surface of the lakes and the breeze carried away the last voices. Jun Tian lay down, not to celebrate or blame, but to prepare. He knew that in the coming years, things would change: the sect would come, his clan would move politically, and a child would be born with promise for the future.
And so, with a heart heavy with care and light with determination, Jun Tian allowed himself to close the chapter of yesteryear.
Four Years Later
Four years passed like accumulated silence. Jun Tian, who had left that night at eleven, looked up again at fifteen: his hair longer, his posture firmer, his eyes filled with an ancient calm. In the silent nights, blade training had become second nature; the Sea of Knowledge had become a vast field; the boards had given him rhythm and vision. As the world prepared to see Yun Xiang taken away by powerful visitors, a new name began to whisper—not among the crowd, but in currents of Qi: Jun Tian, the one who grew in the shadows.
The city had also changed: flags, conversations, and expectations reshaped. In the Jun mansion, a cradle was ready—the newborn (a boy, whom we will name later) was already crying in some secluded room, shielding himself from unnecessary eyes. And, on the streets, messages arrived: the Nascent Soul Sect was coming. The time to show faces and talents was approaching.
Jun Tian looked out over the city from his rock and felt the same voice:
"Now begin. But with patience."
And so the chapter ended—not in a jarring climax, but in prepared silence: the library closed, the blades sharpened in the Sea, and a four-year leap that had transformed the boy reader into a more whole cultivator, ready for the rumblings to come.