The Ashford estate rose above the tree line as afternoon sun climbed toward its peak, stone walls covered in climbing vines, the peaked roof of the main manor visible beyond the training courtyard where Ryker had embarrassed himself this morning. He walked through the gates feeling surprisingly good, he was in a good mood.
His meridians hummed with that weird warmth, the herb pouch at his belt clinked with valuable Moonpetal Lotus, and his dignity was only partially compromised. All in all, a successful morning.
Then he saw his father standing in the courtyard archway, his arms crossed, staring directly at him.
Baron Elias Ashford stood there like he'd been waiting, which meant he'd definitely been waiting. The expression on his face was unreadable, but Ryker's inherited memories supplied approximately twelve scenarios where this exact pose preceded hour-long lectures about family honor and not embarrassing the Ashford name.
Ryker straightened his posture automatically. He created the perfect "I'm ready to be disappointed in myself" stance.
"Ryker." The Baron's voice carried across the courtyard.
"Father." The word came out respectful, neutral, prepared for whatever criticism was about to land.
The Baron walked forward, his boots clicking against stone tiles, and stopped close enough that Ryker could smell the expensive sandalwood incense that always clung to his formal robes. He was looking at the dirt on Ryker's boots, the sweat stains on his robes, the practice sword strapped to his back, and those slightly swollen knuckles from punching wood that refused to cooperate.
This was usually the part where Father pointed out that the heir to the Ashford family shouldn't look like he'd lost a fight with a particularly aggressive bush.
Instead, the Baron smiled.
It was small—barely lifting the corners of his mouth beneath that salt-and-pepper beard—but it was definitely there, and it was absolutely terrifying because Ryker had no frame of reference for what a proud father's smile meant in this context.
"I watched you this morning," Father said, and Ryker's stomach dropped. "Before dawn. Out in the training courtyard."
Oh no.
"I saw you attempt the horse stance." The Baron's voice carried warmth Ryker hadn't heard in three years. "Watching your legs shake, you collapse after such intense work Most boys would have quit right there."
Ryker's brain scrambled for where this was going. Yes, he'd failed spectacularly at horse stance. Yes, his legs had given out like a newborn deer. This was somehow a good thing?
"Then I saw you move to the striking post," Father continued, gripping Ryker's shoulder with one heavy hand. " For the first time, i saw the grit in you, even though your form was terrible, your will was unshaken"
"I..." Ryker tried to find words. His form hadn't been terrible. It had been catastrophic. "Thank you?"
"And then—" The Baron's grip tightened slightly, voice gaining intensity. "Then I watched you try to meditate. Saw the frustration on your face when the qi wouldn't circulate properly. Yet, you tried different breathing patterns, different postures, refusing to give up even when nothing worked."
Ryker's internal monologue was screaming. None of that had worked. Zero of it. He'd accomplished nothing except proving that orthodox cultivation methods hated him personally. Where was this going?
"Most young men with your condition would have accepted their fate," Father said, and there was genuine emotion in his voice now. "Wallowed in self-pity, they would blame the heavens for their crippled meridians, giving up on cultivation entirely."
"I mean, I considered it—"
"But not my son." The Baron stepped back, looking Ryker directly in the eye with an expression that could only be described as pride, "Today I saw a boy who got up before dawn, trained until he couldn't stand, then went into the forest alone to continue pushing himself."
Wait.
"What?" Ryker said eloquently.
"The forest." Father gestured at the herb pouch. "I saw you leave at dawn with that sword and your gathering supplies. You went out there to train more, didn't you? To gather resources while testing yourself against the environment. Solo cultivation, the old way. The hard way."
Ryker's brain experienced a complete system crash. His father thought—he actually thought that the forest trip was more training. That Ryker had gone out there to suffer through more orthodox cultivation instead of, you know, accidentally meeting a beautiful elf who spent an hour with him.
"I didn't actually—"
"Don't be modest." The Baron was on a roll now, apparently interpreting Ryker's confused stammering as humility. "I can sense the change in your qi. You've advanced, haven't you? Your cultivation has stabilized for the first time in three years. My boy, just how many days have you been hiding this for"
That part was technically accurate. Ryker had advanced. Just not through the method his father was currently praising.
"You broke through that bottleneck," Father continued, his voice gaining volume like he was building to a grand conclusion. "Because you put in the real work. No shortcuts, no pills, no seeking out master cultivators to beg for help. Just pure determination and sweat."
The irony was so thick Ryker could taste it. He'd literally spent the morning learning from someone who was definitely a master-level swordsman, planning to buy pills with his herb money, and the only reason his meridians had budged was because Zyx's method involved doing the complete opposite of orthodox suffering.
"Father, I should probably explain—"
"No need to explain anything." The Baron held up a hand. "Your results speak for themselves. You've advanced to Qi Condensation Rank Four, haven't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"In two days." Father's smile widened. "I can only imagine the days before but in two days of determination, you did what i deemed as impossible. Do you know what that tells me?"
Ryker had a feeling he was about to find out.
"It tells me that you were never truly crippled," the Baron said, his voice softening. "Your meridians weren't the problem. Your willpower was. You'd given up on yourself, so your cultivation gave up on you. But the moment you decided to actually try, your body responded."
This was the wrongest interpretation of events possible, and Ryker had no idea how to correct it without explaining that his actual cultivation method.
"I..." Words failed him. "Thank you?"
"I'm reinstating your allowance," Father announced, like this was the natural conclusion to his completely incorrect assessment. "And your Academy application is approved. I was going to forbid you from attending the trials—thought it would spare you the humiliation of failing publicly."
Ryker's chest tightened. He'd known his standing was bad, but being actively barred from the trials? That would have been the end of everything.
"But this changes things," the Baron continued. "This dedication? This willingness to push through failure and pain? That's the Ashford spirit. That's what our family was built on—not talent, not luck, but pure stubborn refusal to quit."
He pulled a small leather pouch from his robes and pressed it into Ryker's hands. The weight and clink suggested many silver coins.
"Use this to prepare properly," Father said. "Buy cultivation pills, better equipment, whatever you need. You've earned it through your efforts." He paused, expression turning serious. "But don't let this breakthrough make you complacent. The Academy trials are in eleven days. Keep training exactly as hard as you did today. That's the path forward."
Ryker stared at the coin pouch, mind churning.
"I'll... do my best," he managed, which was technically true. He would do his best. His best just happened to involve a completely different method than Father was imagining.
"Good." The Baron gripped his shoulder one more time, squeezed hard enough to bruise slightly, then released him. "Go get cleaned up. You look like you fought a spirit beast . But do it proudly—those are the marks of real work."
He turned and walked back toward the main manor, leaving Ryker standing alone in the courtyard holding a pouch full of money he'd earned through completely fraudulent means.
Zyx materialized on his shoulder the moment Father was out of sight, his shell vibrating with barely suppressed laughter. "Well. That was beautiful."
"Shut up."
"I mean it! Poor guy, he constructed an entire narrative of orthodox cultivation and grit when his son actually spent the morning getting touched by an elf whose ass could inspire religious devotion—" The beetle made a sound like choking on amusement. "This is peak comedy."
"He thinks I'm training properly," Ryker muttered, staring at the coin pouch.
"You are training properly. Just not in the way he thinks." Zyx's antennae waggled. "And now you have funding! No need to sell those herbs. You can keep them for emergencies and use his money to buy pills from the pretty merchant."
Ryker's brain caught up to that logic. He didn't actually need to sell the Moonpetal Lotus anymore. The allowance Father just gave him was more than enough for pills and supplies. Which meant the herbs could stay as backup resources for later.
"This feels wrong," he said.
"This is victory baby!." Zyx's shell pulsed satisfied magenta. "You got credit for hard work, funding for your actual cultivation method, and kept valuable resources. This is what we call a complete victory."
"Through deception."
"Through strategic omission and allowing natural assumptions to flourish undisturbed." The beetle paused. "Also, stop feeling guilty. Your father's happy, you're advancing, everyone wins. The method doesn't matter if the results are real."
That... was actually somewhat logical, which made Ryker suspicious. "When did you become the voice of reason?"
"I'm ten thousand years old. I've seen enough young cultivators torture themselves over honesty to know that results matter more than methods. Your father wanted you to succeed. You're succeeding. The how is irrelevant."
Ryker looked down at the coin pouch, feeling its weight.
"Fine," he said eventually. "I'm going into town. If I'm going to use this money for pills, I might as well do it today."
"Excellent! We can visit the merchant! I have observations about his collarbones that I didn't get to share last time—"
"We're going to buy pills. In and out."
"Of course."
Ryker ignored that, already walking toward his quarters to clean up and change into something else. The afternoon sun climbed higher, and the market would still be open for several hours.
Ryker wasn't sure if he should feel guilty about deceiving his father or triumphant about accidentally succeeding.
He settled on awkward. Deeply, profoundly awkward. The emotion he was becoming intimately familiar with since waking up in this world.
Maybe Zyx was right. Maybe results were all that mattered.
Or maybe he was just really good at lying to himself.
Either way, he needed a bath.