The bar shook—not from destruction, but from applause.
Laughter, cheers, and the clatter of cups filled the air as bodies crowded every corner of the wide, open hall. Mercenaries leaned over tables, standing on benches, even hanging from the railings of the upper floor, all eyes locked on the cleared space at the center.
Zhao Ming stood there, breathing hard.
Across from him was Lei Sheng.
The Thunder Rider.
Lightning crackled faintly around Lei Sheng's shoulders, restrained, disciplined, never quite escaping his control. His boots remained planted, casual, as though the ground itself was something he tolerated rather than relied upon.
"Again," Lei Sheng said calmly.
Zhao Ming moved.
His feet slid across the wooden floor, each step precise, weight distributed perfectly. His palms flowed in controlled arcs, redirecting invisible force, guiding momentum rather than contesting it.
Lei Sheng struck.
Not fast enough to kill.
Fast enough to teach.
Zhao Ming met the blow with a spiral of movement, his arm absorbing, turning, and dispersing the thunderous force into the ground. The floor groaned—but did not break.
A pulse of energy rippled outward.
The crowd roared.
"Did you see that?!"
"He redirected it—again!"
"That kid's not human!"
Zhao Ming exhaled sharply and pressed forward, chaining the passive techniques seamlessly. Deflection. Yield. Redirection. Dismissal. Every movement flowed into the next, no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Lei Sheng's eyes gleamed with approval.
Two weeks.
Two weeks had been enough.
He stepped in, finally increasing his output—just enough.
Zhao Ming's vision blurred as thunder surged toward him.
He planted his foot.
Lowered his center.
And let the strike pass through him.
The energy dispersed harmlessly behind him, rattling bottles and lanterns.
Lei Sheng stopped.
The hall went silent.
Then—
Thunderous applause.
Lei Sheng laughed—a deep, genuine sound.
"That's enough," he said, raising a hand.
Zhao Ming straightened, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow.
Lei Sheng nodded slowly.
"You've mastered everything I had to give," he said. "Faster than anyone I've ever taught."
Zhao Ming stiffened.
"…That's it?" he asked.
Lei Sheng met his gaze.
"That's enough," he repeated. "Not because you are finished. But because you are no longer helpless."
The bar creaked softly.
Outside the windows, unfamiliar mountains loomed.
The bar had moved again.
This time—close to Qiang Territory.
Lei Sheng turned toward the crowd, lifting a mug.
"That's all for today," he announced. "Drink. Rest. And remember—you witnessed something worth surviving."
The mercenaries cheered once more.
Later, as the hall quieted, Zhao Ming stood before Lei Sheng, fists clenched.
"…Thank you," Zhao Ming said.
Lei Sheng studied him carefully.
"You were never meant to be a blade," he said. "Remember that. The moment you forget, you'll become exactly what hunted you."
Zhao Ming bowed deeply.
"I won't forget."
Lei Sheng smiled faintly.
"Good. Then go."
They parted without ceremony.
Without promises.
The bar's doors closed behind Zhao Ming as he stepped into the world once more.
Qiang City was… overwhelming.
Stalls sold everything from spirit herbs to bread stamped with Qiang Hao's face. Banners bearing his name fluttered everywhere. Even the lanterns were carved in his likeness.
Zhao Ming kept his head down.
He found a modest inn near the outer districts—quiet, cheap, unremarkable.
Perfect.
That night, he sat by the window, brush in hand.
Ink flowed across paper.
Not cultivators.
Not beasts.
But thunder trapped in glass.
A walking bar beneath storm clouds.
A man who laughed like lightning.
Zhao Ming paused.
The candle flickered.
The window creaked.
Cold air slipped in.
"…So," a voice purred from behind him, amused and sharp, "did you miss me?"
Zhao Ming froze.
Reflected in the window's glass—
White feathers.
Red eyes.
The Owl smiled.