The forest outside Ashford territory looked exactly like every fantasy screensaver Ryker had imagined–ancient trees with silver-tinged bark, moss-covered stones that hummed faintly with energy, sunlight filtering through the canopy in those perfect golden shafts that seemed almost designed for dramatic entrances.
Ryker was here for herbs. Just herbs. Spiritual plants that sold for silver, which he desperately needed because his allowance was still suspended and pride only got you so far when you were broke.
"The Moonpetal Lotus grows near water," Zyx said from inside his collar, voice muffled by fabric. "Follow the sound of running water. Even you can't mess that up."
"Helpful as always."
"I aim to disappoint."
Ryker adjusted the sword strapped across his back—a weapon he knew how to use in the same way he knew how to perform brain surgery, which is to say he'd seen it done and could probably fake it for thirty seconds before everything went catastrophically wrong, he he watched like 8 seasons of a guy named house. The sword was mostly for spirit beasts, which supposedly roamed these forests looking for cultivators stupid enough to wander alone.
He'd been walking maybe fifteen minutes when he heard it.
Soft thuds as if a metal, dull was striking wood
His first instinct was to keep walking. Don't get involved with random voices who might turn out to be cultivators which were territorial psychopaths. Except curiosity and five hundred web novels worth of "mysterious encounter" tropes whispered that ignoring this was the opposite of dumb.
"Go look," Zyx urged.
"I'm here for herbs."
"And educational opportunities. Maybe there is someone striking trees with a sword. You could learn something."
"I could also get murdered by a forest hermit who doesn't appreciate witnesses."
"Where's your sense of adventure? Your protagonist's instincts? This is literally a classic setup—a mysterious figure training in isolated clearing, clearly skilled, definitely hiding something interesting."
Was the damn beetle coaxing him? He sighed then adjusted course toward the sound, moving as quietly as possible.
The trees opened into a clearing that looked unnatural, a flat ground carpeted in soft grass, morning light pooling like liquid gold, a fallen log that probably served as meditation bench, and in the center, a figure moving through various movements with such fluidity and grace that it made him freeze.
His brain registered several things simultaneously:
One, definitely not a spirit beast.
Two, definitely humanoid and armed.
Three, his gender recognition systems were experiencing critical malfunctions.
The figure wore form-fitting leather armor in deep forest green, it emphasized rather than concealed. A slender frame, with a cute narrow waist, and movements that combined this lethal combo with something almost dance-like. Silver hair caught sunlight as they pivoted through a strike, the length of it—past the shoulders, tied back loosely—drawing attention to a graceful neck and the curve of—
They completed the form and lowered their blade, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths that made the armor shift across a torso that Ryker's brain kept trying to categorize and failing.
Then the figure turned.
Ryker's analytical mind, which prided itself on rapid assessment and logical categorization, took one look at that face and gave up completely.
Beautiful didn't cover it. Beautiful was inadequate. This was the kind of face that Renaissance painters spent years trying to capture and never quite managed—delicate features that shouldn't work on a mortal, high cheekbones catching light, skin that looked like porcelain given human warmth. Eyes like pale jade focused on him with surprised curiosity, framed by silver lashes that had no right existing outside of fantasy illustrations.
And the lips. Ryker's brain, traitor that it was, fixated on the lips. Full, slightly parted from exertion, a mouth that belonged in classical sculpture or extremely questionable dreams.
The figure tilted their head—his head, definitely a boy despite everything—and silver hair shifted to reveal a graceful neck, collarbones visible above the armor's edge, and those slightly pointed ears that marked him as one with elf blood.
"Oh!" The voice came melodic, soft and quite feminine. "I didn't know anyone else trained out here."
Ryker's mouth opened. Nothing came out. His brain supplied approximately forty different responses, rejected all of them as stupid, then defaulted to awkward silence.
"You're staring," Zyx whispered gleefully.
He was. He absolutely was. Ryker forced his brain back online, reaching for that cold energy he'd been practicing. Mysterious. Aloof.
"I heard sounds," he managed. "I'm gathering herbs."
Smooth. Absolutely zero weird pauses or voice cracks. Perfect delivery.
Come on!! It was an elf!! A beautiful elf! People dreamed of meeting them!! Cough cough, of course, he was not one of them.
The elf's expression shifted to something warmer—friendliness instead of the wariness Ryker expected. "Spirit herbs? There's a good cluster of Moonpetal Lotus near the stream north of here. I passed them during my warm-up run."
Ofcourse
When the elf shifted his stance to sheathe the sword, the movement did something to his figure that made Ryker's eyes track the motion before his brain could stop them. The armor didn't hide much. His narrow waist transitioned to hips that curved just enough to make Ryker question physics and anatomy. When he bent slightly to secure the blade, the leather pulled tight across—
"Stop staring at his ass," Zyx hissed.
"Shut up, im observing how a elf-"
"You're observing cake."
The elf straightened, turning back to face him with that curious head-tilt. "You're from the Ashford estate, right? I've seen you in town a few times."
Ryker hadn't seen him, which felt like a personal failure of observation. You didn't forget faces that looked like someone poured moonlight into human shape and gave it a sword.
"Ryker Ashford," he said, it was good that his name was not well known.
"Ashford? You must be the son of the lord? Where are my manners" bowing slightly, he introduced himself "Elio Windwhisper." The elf—Elio—extended his hand for a handshake, and when Ryker took it, the grip surprised him. Firm, Callused palms that were clearly from hard work. The hands of someone who'd spent years mastering the blade.
"You're taking the Academy trials next week, aren't you? I heard it from a friend of mine"
"You're entering too?" That made sense. He could just see someone like he-him, his movement suggested serious skill, and the Academy recruited anyone with talent.
"Something like that." Elio's smile gained a mysterious edge that Ryker's brain immediately recognized as foreshadowing. "I'll definitely be there. Are you preparing for the combat trials well? Is that why you're out here?"
"Gathering resources," Ryker said, which was true. "My cultivation requires... specific materials."
"Well, the Moonpetal Lotus should help. They're excellent for meridian purification." Elio's gaze traveled over him—assessing, not judging—and landed on the practice sword. "You carry a blade but your stance suggests unfamiliarity. Are you primarily a qi cultivator?"
Ryker's pride wrestled with honesty. Pride lost because lying would backfire spectacularly. "My combat training is... theoretical. I know the forms but my application is weaker."
"Theoretical." Elio's expression shifted, his brows furrowed. "That's most noble family training, honestly. They teach you the shapes without the substance." He drew his sword again in one fluid motion that made the blade sing. "Would you like some hlep? I have time before my next session."
"If it's not an inconvenience," he heard himself say.
Elio's smile widened, the corners of his mouth reached far, not the smug superiority Ryker expected. "I love sparring! Most cultivators just want to show off their techniques. Actually learning is rarer!" He gestured to the clearing's center. "Draw your blade. Let me see your foundation."
Foundation. Right. Ryker had approximately three days worth of foundation, most of which involved failing at horse stance and punching wooden posts. He drew the practice sword, his grip was awkward and rather crude.
Elio watched with a deep gaze which made him aware of all his flaws"Your grip's too tight. You'll tire fast and lose flexibility. Loosen it—hold the blade like you're holding a bird. Firm enough it can't escape, gentle enough you don't crush it."
Ryker adjusted. The sword immediately felt more natural.
"Better. Now your stance. Your feet should be shoulder-width, knees bent, but you're too rigid. Combat is fluid. You need to be able to move in any direction without resetting." Elio moved closer, Ryker registered it as the elf reached out to adjust his posture.
Warm hands—even through the leather gloves—pressed against his shoulder, repositioning it. Another hand on his lower back, straightening his spine. Elio circled him like a sculptor assessing marble, making small corrections that involved far more physical contact than Ryker's heartrate appreciated.
"There. Feel the difference?" Elio's voice came from right beside his ear"That's center of balance. Strike from here, not from your arms."
Ryker felt something, though whether it was proper balance or the fact that Elio smelled like pine needles and something floral he couldn't identify was unclear.
"Try striking now," Elio stepped back, resuming his ready stance.
Ryker struck. The blade moved smoother than before, the weight flowing from his center like Elio described. Not perfect, but not bad.
Elio blocked it easily though "Much better! See? Your body knows what to do when you stop overthinking it." He reset his stance. "Again. Faster this time."
They did that for what might have been an hour, though Ryker lost track. Each exchange taught him something—how to read an opponent's stance, where to place his feet for better mobility, which angles created openings. Elio corrected him from time to time, and he found himself actually learning.
Halfway through, Ryker noticed the warmth in his dantian building—that same sensation from the marketplace with Lian but different somehow. Sharper. More active. His qi wasn't just sitting there anymore; it moved, circulating through the channels that felt less blocked with every exchange.
"You're picking this up faster than I expected," Elio said eventually, lowering his blade. His breathing had barely increased despite the workout "Most people take weeks to internalize these basics. You did it in an hour."
"Your teaching is clear," Ryker managed, trying not to focus on how Elio's hair had come partially loose during sparring, silver strands framing his face in a distracting manner.
Zyx remained suspiciously silent through all of this, which meant it was either unconscious or enjoying Ryker's suffering too much to interrupt.
"We should do this again," Elio said, tying his hair in a high ponytail that emphasized the graceful line of his neck again. "Tomorrow morning? Same time? I'm here most days anyway."
Ryker's brain presented two options: enthusiastic agreement or mysterious non-commitment. He went with: "I'll be gathering more herbs tomorrow. If you're here, we could spar again."
Elio's smile suggested he'd seen right through it. "Perfect! Oh, let me show you where those Moonpetal Lotus are. They're tricky to find if you don't know the area."
The stream turned out to be maybe ten minutes north, exactly as Elio described, there was clear water flowing over smooth stones, banks lined with luminescent flowers that glowed faint blue in the dappled sunlight. Moonpetal Lotus, six spiraling petals each, exactly matching Zyx's description.
Ryker knelt to harvest them carefully, aware of Elio watching with interest.
"You know proper harvesting techniques?" the elf observed. "That's unusual for combat cultivators."
"I read extensively," Ryker said, which was true. Five hundred web novels contained a surprising amount of herb-gathering scenes, usually while protagonists monologued about their views.
He collected five stems, storing them in the leather pouch he'd brought specifically for this. The flowers pulsed with spiritual energy even contained—these would sell for decent silver, enough to buy pills from Lian and maybe some actual supplies.
"Those should get you good prices from the alchemists in town," Elio said. "The Silverbrook merchant usually pays fair rates. Do you know Lian?"
Ryker's hands froze mid-harvest. "You know Lian?"
"Everyone knows Lian. Sweetest person in the lower district." Elio's expression gained a knowing quality. "Very popular with the Academy-bound students. I think half the first-years have tried courting him at some point. He is also going to enter this year/"
Information that Ryker absolutely didn't need and definitely wasn't thinking about. "I've purchased pills from his stall."
"Of course." Elio's smile said he didn't believe that for a second but was polite enough not to push. "Well, I should get back to my training. Early morning tomorrow?"
"Maybe."
"I'll be here either way." Elio waved—an almost childish gesture that contrasted with his skills—and disappeared into the forest with the kind of silent movement technique, damn that looked cool.
Ryker stood alone by the stream, holding five glowing flowers
Zyx materialized on his shoulder, shell practically vibrating with smug satisfaction. "So."
"Don't."
"I'm not saying anything."
"You're thinking it loudly."
"I'm thinking that your meridians just had a breakthrough from spending an hour getting manhandled by someone, whose existence defies at least three categories you previously thought were rigid." The beetle's shell pulsed that insufferable magenta. "Check your cultivation."
Ryker closed his eyes, consciousness diving inward. His dantian glowed brighter than this morning—noticeably brighter. The qi circulated smoother, flowing through meridians that felt wider, less calcified. When he tested the flow, it reached his shoulders, his arms, circulated back without dispersing.
"Qi Condensation Rank Four," Zyx announced. "One rank from an hour of sparring. Still think my method is nonsense?"
It wasn't nonsense. That was the problem.But what was the sense behind it, what was its limit? What the hell is happening.
"He'll be at the Academy," Ryker said, mostly to himself.
"Yep. Probably another first-year. Talented one." Zyx paused. "You should definitely train with him again tomorrow. He will become someone special"
"Obviously."
"And maybe ask about his hair care routine because that silver is magnificent—"
"We're leaving." Ryker started the walk back toward Ashford territory, the pouch secured to his belt, his mind was churning. If he trained with Elio every morning, his combat skills would actually become functional instead of theoretical. If his cultivation kept advancing at this rate...
Maybe Wei Jian's smug face could become a pleasant memory.