The spark of azure lightning danced on Ren's fingertip, a miniature, tamed star. It felt… right. It was a part of him in a way the manipulated air and resonant vibrations never could be. His kinetic arts were tools he had forged out of necessity. This was an extension of his own soul. For the first time, he felt less like a freak and more like a cultivator, however strange his path.
"Cease your sentimental fascination with that insignificant spark," Zephyrion's voice cut through his reverie, sharp with disdain. "You have taken the first, pathetic step on a journey of ten thousand miles, and you are gawking at your own feet. You have widened the cup, but you still drink through a pinhole. Your Aetheric Channels are a disgrace—narrow, brittle, and utterly unsuited for a Raijin."
Ren extinguished the spark, his focus shifting back to the imperious ghost. "What is the next step?"
"The first tempering reforged your flesh," the spirit explained, a lecturer addressing a particularly dim-witted student. "It made your body a vessel capable of holding the storm. The second tempering will reforge your pathways. We will turn your garden hoses into riverbeds. You will use your newfound control to channel a steady stream of your Spirit Soul's Aether directly into your spiritual channels. Not to circulate it for techniques, but to forcibly expand them, to scour them, to strengthen their walls from within."
The prospect was daunting. Forcing raw power through channels not designed for it was a known way for cultivators to cripple themselves permanently.
"It will be painful," Zephyrion added, as if sensing his thoughts. "More painful than the first tempering. The risk of permanently damaging your channels is high. But it is the only way. A Raijin's power is meant to flow like a tidal wave. Your current system is an invitation to catastrophic failure. We begin now."
But before Ren could even begin to steel himself for another round of agony, a new, external force intruded upon his isolated world. A soft, respectful knock echoed from his dormitory door. It was not a servant. It was a presence he recognized instantly.
Ren's eyes darted to Zephyrion's spectral form. "Can he see you?"
"The old man?" Zephyrion scoffed. "His cultivation is formidable for this faded age—an Aether Lord, perhaps? But he is blind to the matters of the soul. I am a remnant, bound to your blood. Unless I choose to manifest, he will see nothing but the trinket on your wrist. Be warned, however. He felt the Aetheric surge of your breakthrough. He is here for answers."
The spirit faded, retreating into the storm-grey bracer, its powerful presence vanishing completely. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
Ren rose, his mind racing. He was caught between two masters. One, an ancient ghost of his own bloodline, who pushed him down a dangerous, heretical path of power. The other, a pillar of the GAMA establishment, who had sheltered him but demanded absolute control and subtlety. The two philosophies were fundamentally incompatible.
He walked to the door and opened it.
Elder Tian stood in the corridor, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes were like chips of obsidian, sharp and penetrating. His gaze swept over Ren, noting the exhaustion, the lingering scent of ozone, and the undeniable, qualitative leap in his Aetheric foundation.
"Your Aetheric Capacity has increased by two full ranks in a single night," the Elder stated. It was not a question. It was a verdict. "An impossible feat. The energy fluctuation from this room was significant, yet it was contained. It did not register on the academy's external sensors." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You have been training."
"You commanded me to await your instructions," Ren replied, his voice neutral, his face a careful blank. He would not lie, but he would not offer the truth.
"I did," the Elder conceded. "And yet, you have advanced at a rate that would be the envy of the greatest geniuses in history, using a method I did not teach you. I am your guardian and your mentor, Ren. My protection is what keeps the jackals at bay and the Pagoda's scientists from putting you in a cage. That protection is predicated on my understanding of your capabilities. At this moment, I find my understanding to be… incomplete."
His voice was calm, but the underlying message was a cold, hard threat. I cannot protect what I do not understand. And what I do not understand, I may be forced to contain myself.
"Walk with me," Elder Tian commanded, turning to leave. "You will explain to me, precisely, what has changed."
Ren stood in the doorway, the cool weight of the bracer on his wrist a silent, heavy secret. He had to follow. He had to provide an answer. But what could he possibly say? How could he explain the ghost of a Sky-Lord in his room? How could he confess to a cultivation method that flew in the face of every orthodox principle the Elder held dear?
He was trapped between the master who demanded he become a storm, and the master who demanded he remain a stone. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that choosing a side would have explosive consequences.
Chapter 41: The Two Masters
The spark of azure lightning danced on Ren's fingertip, a miniature, tamed star. It felt… right. It was a part of him in a way the manipulated air and resonant vibrations never could be. His kinetic arts were tools he had forged out of necessity. This was an extension of his own soul. For the first time, he felt less like a freak and more like a cultivator, however strange his path.
"Cease your sentimental fascination with that insignificant spark," Zephyrion's voice cut through his reverie, sharp with disdain. "You have taken the first, pathetic step on a journey of ten thousand miles, and you are gawking at your own feet. You have widened the cup, but you still drink through a pinhole. Your Aetheric Channels are a disgrace—narrow, brittle, and utterly unsuited for a Raijin."
Ren extinguished the spark, his focus shifting back to the imperious ghost. "What is the next step?"
"The first tempering reforged your flesh," the spirit explained, a lecturer addressing a particularly dim-witted student. "It made your body a vessel capable of holding the storm. The second tempering will reforge your pathways. We will turn your garden hoses into riverbeds. You will use your newfound control to channel a steady stream of your Spirit Soul's Aether directly into your spiritual channels. Not to circulate it for techniques, but to forcibly expand them, to scour them, to strengthen their walls from within."
The prospect was daunting. Forcing raw power through channels not designed for it was a known way for cultivators to cripple themselves permanently.
"It will be painful," Zephyrion added, as if sensing his thoughts. "More painful than the first tempering. The risk of permanently damaging your channels is high. But it is the only way. A Raijin's power is meant to flow like a tidal wave. Your current system is an invitation to catastrophic failure. We begin now."
But before Ren could even begin to steel himself for another round of agony, a new, external force intruded upon his isolated world. A soft, respectful knock echoed from his dormitory door. It was not a servant. It was a presence he recognized instantly.
Ren's eyes darted to Zephyrion's spectral form. "Can he see you?"
"The old man?" Zephyrion scoffed. "His cultivation is formidable for this faded age—an Aether Lord, perhaps? But he is blind to the matters of the soul. I am a remnant, bound to your blood. Unless I choose to manifest, he will see nothing but the trinket on your wrist. Be warned, however. He felt the Aetheric surge of your breakthrough. He is here for answers."
The spirit faded, retreating into the storm-grey bracer, its powerful presence vanishing completely. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
Ren rose, his mind racing. He was caught between two masters. One, an ancient ghost of his own bloodline, who pushed him down a dangerous, heretical path of power. The other, a pillar of the GAMA establishment, who had sheltered him but demanded absolute control and subtlety. The two philosophies were fundamentally incompatible.
He walked to the door and opened it.
Elder Tian stood in the corridor, his face an unreadable mask, but his eyes were like chips of obsidian, sharp and penetrating. His gaze swept over Ren, noting the exhaustion, the lingering scent of ozone, and the undeniable, qualitative leap in his Aetheric foundation.
"Your Aetheric Capacity has increased by two full ranks in a single night," the Elder stated. It was not a question. It was a verdict. "An impossible feat. The energy fluctuation from this room was significant, yet it was contained. It did not register on the academy's external sensors." He paused, his gaze intensifying. "You have been training."
"You commanded me to await your instructions," Ren replied, his voice neutral, his face a careful blank. He would not lie, but he would not offer the truth.
"I did," the Elder conceded. "And yet, you have advanced at a rate that would be the envy of the greatest geniuses in history, using a method I did not teach you. I am your guardian and your mentor, Ren. My protection is what keeps the jackals at bay and the Pagoda's scientists from putting you in a cage. That protection is predicated on my understanding of your capabilities. At this moment, I find my understanding to be… incomplete."
His voice was calm, but the underlying message was a cold, hard threat. I cannot protect what I do not understand. And what I do not understand, I may be forced to contain myself.
"Walk with me," Elder Tian commanded, turning to leave. "You will explain to me, precisely, what has changed."
Ren stood in the doorway, the cool weight of the bracer on his wrist a silent, heavy secret. He had to follow. He had to provide an answer. But what could he possibly say? How could he explain the ghost of a Sky-Lord in his room? How could he confess to a cultivation method that flew in the face of every orthodox principle the Elder held dear?
He was trapped between the master who demanded he become a storm, and the master who demanded he remain a stone. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that choosing a side would have explosive consequences.