Kan snatched at every spare moment to practice his Aura sensing. Whenever Meizo wasn’t looking, he closed his eyes and reached for their surroundings, examining how the images and sounds shifted under different circumstances. He was so absorbed in the effort that he forgot to check their bearings, and the next time he looked over the horizon, the Skyward Mountains were already looming over the jagged landscape.

“This is the last town before the Temples,” Meizo said as the wagon entered a lively settlement at the foot of the mountain range. He handed Kan a note and a pouch of coins. “Will you fetch some provisions for me? The crowd makes it hard for the wagon. Get yourself a drink too, you’ll miss those in the mountains.”

Kan hopped off the wagon. As he pulled his attention back to the real world and shoved through the throng of market-goers, the drastic change of scenes finally hit him—he hadn’t seen this many people for weeks.

The late morning streets were lined with snack peddlers and quick lunch vendors, haggling and chattering with flocks of passersby. Fresh buns and porridge filled the air with steam, rinsing away the smell of coal and deep fry oil. Clucks and bleats drifted above the din, and the crowd hustled forward steadily. The flow led Kan straight to the market square. 

Meizo’s list was for a large collection of chemicals, likely raw materials he needed for talismans: vermilion powder, quicksilver, white lead, and an assortment of herbs and minerals. Kan passed a few storefronts before entering a medicine shop with a wooden plaque darkened with age.

“What can I get for you?” The medicine man looked up from behind a thick tome.

Kan showed him the note. The man ran through it quickly with a finger. “Shaman orders,” he mumbled. “Wait here.” Then he disappeared into the storage chamber.

The Temples must frequent this shop for their supplies, Kan thought while he waited. He wondered what Aura each of those materials carried and what talismans they could make. Most of them were common items, which meant it’d take a lot of skill to call their power forward …

His thoughts froze midtrack as a menacing presence hissed at the back of his mind. He wheeled around.

A young man slightly older than Kan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, studying his target intently. Seeing Kan had sensed his arrival, he cocked an eyebrow in amusement.

“What business does a Southerner have with shaman supplies?” he scoffed.

One needed only a glance to tell Kan’s heritage. His features held all the hallmarks of a typical Southerner—darker tan, narrower build, less angular face. It was no secret in the town where he lived before that he was from the other side of the Red River, but hostility was generally milder on the border, and his deadly reputation had kept any unfriendly comments at bay. Here in the deep North, different treatment was in store.

Kan placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword. “I heard no such rule that shops in this town sell exclusively to shamans.”

The newcomer sauntered forward, stopping five paces away from Kan. “We don’t sell to Southerners.”

“That’s for the shop owner to decide.”

“That’s for any Northerner to decide, scum. Now get out before I help you with a good kick.”

At the closer distance, Kan could see the other man’s gray robe in more detail. He noticed the familiar embroidery pattern on the cuffs, with rays of golden Aura emanating through the clouds, same as the ones on Meizo’s robe. The insignia of the Temples.

Was this a trap? Did the Temples never intend for him to reach their grounds whole and sound?

Kan looked the man square in the eye. Judging from the unsteady pulses of his Aura, he couldn’t be more than a low stage apprentice, and Kan felt a tinge of bitterness rising again. Four years ago, someone like this stood no chance against him. At the same time, however, he was surprised to feel anticipation coursing through his blood, ready to crush the offending Aura.

Dare him, it beckoned from within. Stand up where you fell and show them who you are.

“Let’s get out indeed,” he replied calmly, “if you want to pick a fight.”

The apprentice’s jaw dropped. Then he burst into laughter. “You challenge me?” His contemptuous gaze swept Kan head to toe. “I’m an apprentice at the Temples, Second Stage. Do you know what that means? You little—”

The insult was only halfway out of his mouth when he threw out the punch. He was fast, sparing no hint and ready to end the exchange quickly by catching his opponent off guard. But Kan was faster. The apprentice watched in disbelief as Kan seized his blow midair, gripped his forearm, and yanked down, using his shoulder as leverage. The momentum sent him tumbling over Kan’s back and landing in a heap on the floor.

“If you want to pick a fight,” Kan repeated, “I’ll meet you outside.”

Kan turned and made his way towards the entrance, keeping his mind in sharp focus. Few could best him with a fist or a sword—he hadn’t lived on a knife’s edge for the past four years for nothing—yet the game might change measurably if the apprentice decided to use Ichor. It was time to put his self-training to the test.

Behind him, the apprentice got to his feet, patted off the dust on his robe, and pulled a talisman out of his sleeve.

It was considered a disgrace to use shaman power against those without it. The apprentice hadn’t planned on using a talisman, but neither had he planned on sprawling at his opponent’s feet. The humiliation was unforgivable, and he was burning with anger. He had to teach the Southerner a good lesson.

He chanted the spell, one aptly named the Killing Wind to call gusts carrying blades small enough to be invisible to the eye. Overkill for the Southerner, perhaps, though it’d guarantee a clean finish. The apprentice grinned as the talisman glowed, lifted from his hand, and flitted towards the unsuspecting young man with his back to him. He waited for the scream.

It didn’t come. The Southerner stepped aside on the threshold a bare second before the wind rushed through, the slightest turn of his body as if to make way for an incoming customer. The gust whistled past him almost obediently, embedding itself with a dozen soft thuds on the opposite wall of the shop, blades glinting.

“Impossible!” The apprentice blurted. He strode forward, squinting to make out his opponent’s features hidden in a dark silhouette against the sun. “You’ve no Ichor … This is impossible!”

“The Killing Wind,” the silhouette said, “I had no idea the Temples teach the same spells. This is getting interesting.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in a tea house at the edge of town, Meizo sipped his drink in a private upstairs chamber. Late morning sunlight poured in through the window, casting a soft shadow on the table through the elaborately carved folding screen.

“You were right,” he said, seemingly to no one in particular. “His Ichor is completely drained, not even First Stage. But the Aura calls to him nonetheless.”

A low chuckle came from behind the screen, “I told you. He has a natural affinity for Aura.”

Meizo couldn’t fathom it.

There were ten stages in the Ichor cultivation process, each marked by increased control over Ichor and Aura. The first five were for apprentices, Sixth and Seventh for Masters, Eighth and Ninth for Grand Masters, and Tenth for the legend that no one believed truly existed. When new apprentices started training, their Ichor would be in a natural, disorganized state, and their first step was to usher it into a controllable flow. The flow would signal the apprentice stepping into First Stage, and Kan was far from it due to his lack of Ichor to work with.

Which made it difficult, or impossible, to explain their encounter with the demons. Meizo had expected Kan’s blows to land solely out of luck. If not for the urges and promises from his mysterious ally, he wouldn’t have bothered testing Kan’s limits at all. Yet what happened was beyond his imagination. The accuracy and timeliness with which Kan located the demon Aura were above even an average Third Stage apprentice.

“He was breaking through from Third Stage to Fourth when the accident occurred,” Meizo reflected. “Maybe the power is still lingering in him somehow.” Though he didn’t believe this theory himself.

“It doesn’t matter. He is the one we need, Master Meizo, and I have proven it. You will honor your part of the bargain as well, will you not?”

Meizo’s gaze turned resolute. “Yes. I will do what’s necessary.”

He downed the rest of his tea and was rising from his seat when a knock came on the door. A servant boy slipped in the room and bowed to the shadow behind the divider.

“Grand Master,” the boy reported, “it has begun. At the medicine shop.”

“Ah. Forgot to mention it, Meizo,” the voice behind the divider said, “I sent Wy to greet your new friend.”

“Wy?” Meizo exclaimed in horror. “No … The new Second Stage that bullies every Southerner he sees? He’ll kill him!”

“Oh, I highly doubt it. You need to give Kan more credit, shaman.”

But Meizo was already out the door, pushing his way through a busy crowd to the market square.