There aren't many avenues of attack for the Kanabō, there’s the vertical, horizontal, and finally the diagonal. There’s also the push to create distance, but generally if you let someone that close you’ve already failed the basics of heavy weapon combat.
In the mortal world the Kanabō is a brute force weapon, used to break open enemy lines so that the footsoldiers can slaughter the mass of bodies in front of them. It’s purpose doesn’t change much once in the hands of a cultivator, only this time it is used to overwhelm individuals and beasts rather than a mere defensive line. It is a weapon of brutal strikes and little else, technique is important, as it always is, but not like with a sword.
There is no flourish,
There are no fancy counters
There only exists a thing to be pulped and the means by which to pulp it.
Right now Tantra is swinging her five foot rod of studded steel directly at Rakan’s shoulder, holding little back. The only rules to the spars is no boosting, considering butting their cultivation against each other would defeat the purpose of training with the weapon. She’s always surprised by how little Rakan moves, dodging all her strikes within a hair's breadth. He does the same for this strike, as he always does, and he responds with an overhead.
As the club comes down she traces its path, it’s gotten…slightly easier the past few months and she doesn’t really know why. Still, just because he’s not boosting doesn’t mean his speed is anywhere near mortal. She dodges with an overly dramatic sidestep.
Which is a mistake because he stops his descent and swipes at her sideways, hitting her right in the ribs and sending her stumbling.
He doesn’t take advantage.
“Only dodge if your opponent can’t correct course,” he instructs, “otherwise your just giving an opening.”
Tantra grunts and nods, bringing her club up.
He nods back and barrels a diagonal strike to her person, barely visible, but she’s been training with Rakan for almost a year, so she’s started to get used to dealing with quick strikes. So long as she can see them coming of course.
She brings her club up and braces, letting the force of the blow travel through her body and into the ground before pushing his weapon away, stepping forward, and doing a quick strike with her left arm on the body of her club.
It actually hits him, and she prepares in dismay for what’s coming.
A fist knocks her head back and she sees stars, in the next moment she is hit in the face with his club, sending her collapsing to the ground.
“Sometimes taking a hit provides opportunities,” he intones.
Etra snorts, “we get it oh wise one.”
He scowls, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Well you definitely weren’t talking to her, she’s fully unconscious.”
Rakan blinks, then looks down at Tantra, nudging her with his club.
“Huh,” he says, “gonna have to work on that.”
-
Qi isn’t something a person can innately touch, it’s not an instinct.
You have to learn, and there is a proper time for a child to touch their Qi. Like how you can’t force a babe to walk, else you risk permanent complications. So you have to wait, not long, sometime between seven and nine is usually when Qi sense naturally forms, letting the child access the wonders of the ethereal.
Erick is six, and he isn’t some special case, so Rakan can’t teach him much beyond martial forms, no matter how much he begs. He does a lot of begging, used to make him feel bad, now it’s just annoying. He’s gotten in the habit of making his training regime slightly harder if he pushes his luck.
Just slightly.
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“Teacher, he’s been punching air for half an hour, isn’t that more than enough?” His student asks him
“You think so? Hey Erick! Is this too much for your weak ass?”
“No master!”
“See, he’s fine.”
Tantra doesn’t look convinced, if her unimpressed look is anything to go by. Honestly, girl’s too soft, especially for kids. When he heard she went bounty hunting with a shattered arm to protect their local daemon child, he couldn’t help but laugh his ass off. Then again, the drive to do dangerous shit for stupid reasons is the hallmark of any cultivator, almost a requirement even, and part of the reason he offered his mentorship.
Most of the reason was because of what the masters seemed to see in her though.
At first he was a little confused, sure she’s not bad but she’s not exceptional either, combine that with her distant soul and you get a recipe for a mediocre cultivator at best. But cultivation isn’t about what’s logical or reasonable, it’s about spirit, and no matter how much she may protest, the girls got a lot of fucking spirit. He saw a bit of it when she’d always get back up during training (if she was conscious), but he became its witness when they fought that bear.
Most of her cultivation would have just kitted the thing, not risking injury, but no, she went for blows that would make a difference, taking heavy injuries along the way. He doesn’t know if he could’ve won that fight without her, probably, but he’d rather not find out.
-
Etra doesn’t know what she’s looking at.
All that she knows is that it’s fucking weird.
A pulsating ball of flesh rolls around using pinprick appendages, it has ears, a mouth, and assortment of other features a head might have but it’s all structured like a spirit beast trying to recreate human features. It rolls up next to her and stares at her with an eye of yellow.
“Hello cutie~” it says from a mouth that's on the other side of its head.
She just stares at the thing, then punts it across the field.
“Rude,” Rakan says as he performs his burpees.
“Ex-fucking-cuse me, how did you expect me to react to that?”
“It’s just a mimic.”
“What in all the gods' fragile grace is a mimic?”
“It’s kinda in the name kid”
In the time Etra’s been having this discussion, the mimics rolled back with it’s misshapen appendages and taps on her leg.
“That was mean~”
Etra yelps and jumps back from the thing, in a fully dignified manner of course, she takes a centering breath before pulling her leg back again.
“Wait~” it says
Etra slowly brings her leg back to the floor and the mimic sighs in relief.
“Thanks cutie~”
“Okay first, don’t call me that, second, how are you even talking? Where are your lungs?”
The thing does the equivalent of a shrug with its many limbs, “ask Gorman’thkar, he’s the one who made me~”
“Yeah sure, let me just get an audience with one of the big fuck off dieties, I’ll get right on that.”
“No need to be rude cutie~”
“Alright, I’m already getting sick of this conversation, what do you want flesh ball?”
“My name is Gerald~”
“That’s a stupid name”
“You’re a stupid person~”
Etra punts the mimic again.
-
Tantra takes a deep breath, digs her feet into the dirt, and lifts the carriage.
Four threads, each in their respective appendages, crossing at her back. She can feel the bile rising as she boosts every muscle and bone all at once. It’s inefficient, sure, but she’s managing, which says a lot for how far her soul has travelled to match her will to this degree.
Erick and a little girl cheer her on as she lifts.
“There, right there!” The voice of an older gentleman says.
Tantra holds up the wooden box on wheels as Rakan adjusts the missing wheel and hammers in the spokes. Consistently boosting through four threads is proving to be a significant challenge for her control, not her will though, that’s soared since her compression exercises. Well, not really, but progress is progress at the end of the day, and she’s further along than if she did everything normally.
“Alright cultivator, you can set it down now.”
She bends her legs and lets the carriage descend slowly to the ground.
“My, my, you’ve done me quite the favour!” He gives Tantra’s back a few slaps, “never thought I’d see the day a cultivator would be inclined to help.”
“I wasn’t,” Rakan grumbles
“Ignore him, it’s an honour to help a fellow traveller on the road.” Tantra says.
“The honour's all mine cultivator! Come, I have plenty of berry wine for us to get drunk and merry.”
“A thousand gratitudes, but I don’t drink wine,” Tantra replies.
“Well I do!” Etra chirps, “c’mon old man, lets see what you got!”