⚡ The Last Disciple of Lightning Peak
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The sky above the garden was awash with soft spiritual light, casting long, rippling reflections across the pond. Aarush sat on a smooth stone, freshly awakened, still feeling the faint ember stir within his dantian.
Across from him, his senior sister knelt by a low stone table, quietly brewing tea with a flicker of jade-leaf flame. The silence between them was peaceful—but questions burned in his chest.
He looked up.
"Do you know where Master is?"
She paused, letting the rising steam drift between them.
"He's not here," she said softly. "He left the continent again—on a matter even I don't know."
Aarush lowered his gaze.
"He left without telling me anything. Without even training me."
"He had his reasons." Her voice remained calm. "And you weren't the only one. Your six senior brothers and sisters… they're scattered across different domains. I haven't seen them in years either."
Surprised, he blinked.
"So none of them are here?"
"Not a single one," she replied, pouring tea into two stone cups. "But don't let that trouble you. I've kept in touch with some. They're alive—and thriving."
He exhaled slowly.
"That's… good to hear."
She handed him the tea, her expression more serious now.
"But right now, what matters is you, Aarush." She pointed gently toward his chest. "That ember inside you—your spiritual root—it's just formed. Still unstable. You need to focus."
He blinked.
"…You know my name?"
She smiled.
"Of course I do. You're my junior brother—even if we've only just met properly."
He looked down, unsure. "And your name…?"
"Sylara," she said softly. "But in front of others, call me Senior Sister."
A breath passed.
"What should I do next?"
"You've awakened a foundation, but your body is still in transition. Your qi veins have only begun to open. Before you take any trial, you must stabilize your energy into the first realm—the Pulsekind Layer."
Aarush's grip on the tea tightened slightly.
"I'll do whatever it takes."
"Good. Once you're stable, we'll return to the sect trial grounds. The trial isn't over. There's still time—and this time, you won't be walking in with nothing."
—
As the sun dipped low, casting a golden sheen across the garden, Aarush crossed his legs beneath the spirit-blossom tree. Sylara sat nearby, silently observing.
He closed his eyes.
The world fell quiet.
Within him, he felt it—a flickering warmth deep inside his lower abdomen. The spiritual root. It pulsed faintly, like a slumbering flame. Gently, Aarush guided his breath. In. Out. Calm. He let the air slide over his lips and tried to feel the rhythm within.
Nothing happened.
Then—a flicker.
The warmth inside brightened for a heartbeat. His chest tingled. A faint thread of energy began to move—hesitant, unsteady.
He gritted his teeth as a sharp sting ran along his spine. His meridians resisted, tight from years of dormancy. He breathed again, slower, deeper. He remembered the old meditation rhyme his master had once murmured long ago—
"Flame follows breath. Breath follows stillness."
The root answered.
A pulse. Then another. The thread of qi smoothed into a trickle, then a flow. Light warmth spread through his body.
Sylara, eyes closed, smiled faintly.
"Good. He's adapting fast," she whispered to herself.
She looked at him with something softer in her eyes—something distant.
"When I first stabilized," she said quietly, not sure if he could hear, "I cried for three days straight. Master didn't comfort me. He only said… 'The strongest roots are forged in silence, not storms.'"
She exhaled, her gaze focused on the flame of the lantern beside her.
"You're more like him than you know, Aarush."
—
He opened his eyes slowly. The garden still hummed with gentle wind.
This time, he thought, I walk in with fire.
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