My feet lead me to a secluded clearing, far enough from prying eyes. The grunts and echoes of clanging weapons from the third-class disciples still resonated faintly in my ears. They were young—far younger than me—but their strength, their skill, outclassed my own.

 

I shouldn't neglect my physical training, even if I wanted to improve my skills in alchemy as much as I could. A well-rounded approach suited me best. I brought up my status, to check the progression of my skills.

 

 

I bit my tongue, unhappy with the lack of progress. Even after all I've gone through, my cultivation rank was still at the mortal realm. I couldn't even be classified as a true cultivator. At what point could I consider myself at the level of the third-class disciples, who were years younger than I was?

 

The forest's embrace was tightening around me as I took off my robe and placed it neatly on a flat stone. My breath felt lighter as I inhaled the scent of the grass. I stood in the center of the clearing, my feet shoulder-width apart, sinking into the horse stance. My muscles tensed as I lowered my body, thighs parallel to the ground, calves vertical, back straight as a rod.

 

"Deeper stance, hold it longer," I muttered to myself, tightening my core. The familiar burn in my thighs intensified, but today it felt like a comforting embrace compared to the inferno of insecurities boiling in my mind. I could see those third-class disciples pushing themselves harder, defying their limits, making breakthroughs. And here I was, stuck in this ancient stance. Could I afford to slack?

 

It was selfish of me to request more resources from the sect. They were gracious enough to give me their alchemical texts despite not being a disciple, but asking them to teach me martial arts was the height of ungratefulness.

 

No. I had to push myself—raise the intensity, shorten the training time. Every second was precious. With Elder Ming's guidance and the support of the Heavenly Interface, I'd pave my own path.

 

My muscles trembled as I forced myself into a deeper stance, my fists clenched so tight they turned white. Minutes felt like hours, but eventually, I let myself rise. No time to catch my breath; I transitioned into a series of strikes, punches, and kicks, each movement more forceful than the last. I tried to remember what I learned from Feng Wu, and even that dastardly second-class disciple from the Silent Moon sect. But all I could do was a pitiful mimicry.

 

I remembered the elegance of Feng Wu's bladed fan, how it danced gracefully in his hands like a petal caught in the wind; the sharpness, the unpredictability of his moves. I tried to emulate the fluidity, but my iron staff's weight clashed with the delicate nature of the fan. The fan moved with the wind; my staff sought to break it. I felt heavy, clumsy.

 

I took a deep breath, shaking away the sweat trickling down my temple. "Focus," I whispered to myself.

 

Next, I tried to recreate Xu Ziqing's swift swordplay—sharp, lethal, and utterly captivating. His sword cut through the air like a silken ribbon, every motion masterful and deliberate. As I tried to mirror him, my staff movements felt unnatural, rigid, trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Xu's technique was catered for swift slashes, while my staff was made for sweeping arcs and quick thrusts. The contrast was too much; I felt torn between two worlds.

 

I grunted in frustration, whirling my staff with more vigor, desperately attempting to fuse the two contrasting styles together. But the more I pushed myself, the more the techniques resisted, as though they were water and oil, refusing to blend.

 

"It's no use," I huffed, feeling defeated. Why did I think I could mimic such unique techniques with my humble staff? Perhaps I was a fool for thinking so.

 

My heart ached, longing to be as graceful as Feng Wu or as swift as Xu Ziqing. But the truth stared at me squarely in the face—I was neither of them. The bitter pill was hard to swallow. I gazed at my staff, its solid iron form reflecting the dappled sunlight from the canopy above. It was an extension of me, and I of it.

 

Finally, my body screamed for a halt, every muscle fiber begging for respite. I sat down, cross-legged, and closed my eyes. It was time for the Crimson Lotus Purification Technique.

 

I felt a phantom touch on my shoulder and momentarily opened my eyes to see nothing there. I sighed. It had been quite some time since I trained without Tianyi's company. I hope she's resting well. It was much lonelier than I expected, not having her by my side for such a long period of time. With only my own thoughts as company.

 

I began to circulate my qi, drawing in the ambient energy from the surrounding forest as my worries and anxieties faded away into the background. The influx was like a stream, gently trickling into my dantian. But before it could merge with my core, I ignited it with my internal fire, burning away the filth, the impurities. The technique was like a crucible, purging everything unnecessary, leaving behind only the essence, a purer form of qi that would empower me.

 

The purification aspect was the most important, but arduous portion of my technique.

 

As Elder Ming said, my body was a vessel to hold qi. And compared to regular cultivators, mine was only the size of a small cup. I could only fill it with the purest energy, to make the most of what I had.

 

I don't know how much time passed, but after gathering what energy I could and shedding away all but the purest, I was left with a marble-sized ball of qi, which I promptly added to my dantian.

 

In contrast to the first time I attempted this, no black sludge appeared. My body felt revitalized and further cleansed, as though I had just come out of a nice, long bath. I breathed out a sigh of relief. It was minuscule, but I could feel the growth established within my reserves.

 

As I opened my eyes, I was met with another pair of deep, green eyes pointed back at me.

 

"AAAAACK!"

 

I scrambled backward, realizing that it was Feng Wu. I could see the ghost of a smile on his face. It was clear to me he was holding in a laugh from the clenching of his jaw.

 

"How long have you been here?! That's not funny, Feng Wu!" I waved my fist at him angrily, trying to soothe my rapidly beating heart. It seemed my cultivation took longer than expected, judging by the sun setting on the horizon. "I could've gotten Qi Deviation!"

 

Feng Wu chuckled, his green eyes twinkling with amusement. "I apologize for startling you. I didn't intend to, I promise."

 

"Yeah, well," I retorted, still trying to collect myself, "you've got a talent for creeping up on people."

 

Feng Wu sobered up and took a step closer. "You're quite engrossed in your training. I didn't wish to disturb you. Actually, I came to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner in the dining hall."

 

I opened my mouth to say yes, grateful for the chance to eat a good meal and socialize for a bit. But then my eyes fell on the setting sun, and my thoughts went back to the third-class disciples I saw earlier. My hand unconsciously clenched.

 

"No, thank you," I said, the words feeling heavy as they left my mouth. "I think I'll continue my training here."

 

A hint of concern washed over Feng Wu's eyes. "Is something bothering you? You seem... uneasy."

 

I shrugged it off with a grin. "Ah, you see, I'm just too much of a genius to waste time eating. I've got this immense talent to cultivate, you know?"

 

He stared at me as if contemplating the sincerity of my words. "Kai," he finally said, his voice tinged with seriousness, "is something truly bothering you?"

 

The weight of his words broke through my facade. My shoulders slumped as I sighed, letting the weariness take over.

 

"It's just...I can't help but feel so far behind," I confessed. "I see these younger disciples, already making so much progress, and here I am struggling to keep up. The thought of going to dinner, and taking time away from training, makes me feel like I'm falling even further behind. I'm afraid of seeming weak, of disappointing everyone, and myself."

 

Feng Wu's eyes softened. "You've been working incredibly hard, and you're improving quickly. Don't forget, you started with practically no martial arts background. In less than a year, you've managed to survive an encounter against a Wind Serpent, and can even utilize the Rooted Banyan Stance. Do you know how extraordinary that is?"

 

"But it doesn't feel like enough," I whispered, my insecurities laid bare. "There's so many incredible people out there. It feels like I'm an impostor wearing someone's skin at times. Am I really capable of standing up there, participating in the Grand Alchemy Gauntlet?"

 

"Kai, progress isn't only measured by how quickly you reach a milestone. It's about the journey, the persistence, and the effort you put in. Stop comparing yourself to others. You are your own person, with your own unique path," Feng Wu said.

 

I looked at him, taking in his earnest expression. Maybe I had been too hard on myself.

 

I pondered Feng Wu's words, letting them sink in. For the first time, I allowed myself to consider the weight of my own achievements. "I guess you have a point," I finally conceded, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

 

Feng Wu's eyes brightened. "That's the spirit! Besides, you're talented in spiritual herbalism and alchemy. I dare say you're leagues ahead of anyone in that domain. You have a unique set of skills that will serve you well in the future."

 

"Thank you, Feng Wu," I said softly, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.

 

His green eyes sparkled as a warm smile spread across his face. "Now, will you join me for dinner? I'll trade pointers with you after if you'd like."

 

I chuckled, feeling lighter. "Yeah, I think I'll take you up on that offer."

 

As we made our way back towards the sect, I took one last glance at my secluded training spot, almost as if bidding it goodbye for the evening. I felt a mixture of guilt and relief. Yes, training was essential, but so was learning to appreciate myself and my own journey. I had almost forgotten Elder Ming's words, which emphasized the importance of rest. If I wanted to maximize my gains, I'd have to rest just as hard as I worked.

 

I opened the blue window, displaying my skills and stats. I looked at them with a newfound respect, acknowledging the effort that got me to this point. Sure, there was a long road ahead, but for the first time in a while, the journey didn't seem so daunting.

 

I closed the interface, catching up to Feng Wu who had slowed his pace to wait for me. As we walked, I thought about what Feng Wu had said. The third-class disciples had their journey, but I had mine. Mine was unconventional, filled with the scent of herbs and the texture of ancient alchemical tomes. It was lined with the wisdom of Elder Ming and peppered with the concern and camaraderie of Feng Wu and others who had come into my life.

 

I was a cultivator, but I was also an alchemist, a student of the natural world, and an ever-growing pool of untapped potential. Perhaps these roles were not as separate as I had thought; maybe they were threads in the intricate tapestry that was my own, unique path.

 

As we strolled towards the sect, a sudden epiphany began to crystallize within me. I paused, letting the moment linger, my mind wandering to the image of a sprawling banyan tree. This magnificent tree didn't reach its towering height and grandeur overnight. It took time, its roots expanding slowly, intertwining with the very essence of the earth.

 

Similarly, my dao, I realized, wasn't merely about relentless cultivation or proving myself to be more resilient than the next cultivator. It was about understanding when to push and when to allow myself rest and nourishment. Just as the banyan tree absorbed nutrients and relied on the symbiotic relationships with its environment, I, too, should understand the significance of leaning on those around me. For what is a tree without the soil that feeds it, the rains that quench its thirst, or the creatures that find sanctuary in its branches?

 

 

The tension between pushing hard and letting go, the struggle to force outcomes versus allowing them to flow naturally, all seemed to click into place. My breath deepened, drawing in the evening's crisp air, and with it came a sense of contentment, an understanding I hadn't fully grasped before.

 

A soft chuckle escaped my lips. The interface had a way of making moments like this slightly comical. Yet, beneath its unexpected timing, lay a deep truth.

 

We often pushed ourselves to the limit, trying to harness the power within and around us. Yet, perhaps sometimes, the true strength lay not in the push but in the pull—allowing the universe to guide us, to accept its rhythm and dance with it rather than against.

 

As we entered the dining hall, greeted by the rich aroma of cooking and the ambient chatter of disciples, I felt like a regular person again. And, for the first time in a long time, that was more than enough.