He Yu groaned and rolled over onto his side. His guandao lay a few feet away. Above him loomed his sect tutor, a burly inner disciple wearing a conical peasant’s hat, named Fang Yingjie.

“The guandao is not a sword,” Fang Yingjie said. His voice was deep but surprisingly quiet. Despite that, it cut through the thundering blood in He Yu’s ears. “This truth is the foundation of the Five Crescent Winds. Use your weapon in its fullness. Focus solely on the blade at your peril.”

As He Yu pushed himself to his feet and retrieved his guandao, he couldn’t deny the words. The whole reason he’d ended up on the ground was due to a strike to his gut from the iron cap at the bottom of Fang Yingjie’s own weapon. A part of him wanted to ascribe the difference to his tutor’s sheer size—the only person of a similar stature he’d met so far was Ren Huang. At the same time though, his cultivation wouldn’t allow him to do so. The self-understanding—and the insights he’d gained into others—that had fractionally grown each day from cultivating the White Mountain technique had shown him the truth of such things.

While Fang Yingjie’s size might suggest he would be slow, the inner sect disciple wielded his guandao in graceful sweeping movements. Movements that contained as much speed as they did power. The strike that had knocked the wind from He Yu for the tenth time that afternoon had been a follow-up from one such sweeping strike. The reversal had been sudden. He’d expected another looping slice, not a swift jab with the opposite end of the weapon.

No, Fang Yingjie’s reputation was well-founded. He was considered a particularly notable talent with the weapon and credited his cultivation of the Five Crescent Winds as the reason. The sect points He Yu had spent on the lessons were equal to a month’s worth of his weekly stipend in spirit stones, but he could already see the value in the exchange—despite spending most of the day lying in the dirt.

“Form the Crashing Wind,” Fang Yingjie instructed.

He Yu stepped forward as he’d been taught, bringing the blade of his guandao crashing down in an overhead arc. His tutor stepped into the attack, as He Yu had expected he would. Sparring with Fang Yingjie was very different than with Li Heng, or even with the other outer sect disciples for that matter. Fang Yingjie was an aggressive fighter. Where Li Heng would defend and deflect, allowing his Winter Moon Reflection to absorb the incoming attack and grow in strength, Fang Yingjie met him blow for blow—every defense an attack, and every attack a defense.

As Fang Yingjie had explained during their sparring that afternoon, the Five Crescent Winds used the power, weight, and reach of the guandao to its fullest advantage. Using it like a staff, Fang Yingjie could block attacks and push his opponent away, throwing the attacker off-balance if performed with enough force. He Yu had ended up in the dirt enough times just from that alone. This time, however, Fang Yingjie did something different.

After he shoved He Yu away, he raised the guandao in a one-handed grip. “The Bracing Wind,” he said. Fang Yingjie slammed the butt of the guandao down to the ground, and a burst of wind qi boomed out around him. Dust flew into the air, and He Yu—still off balance from the previous technique—ended up in the dirt yet again.

Shaking his head, He Yu pushed himself to his feet once more. He almost objected. It was unfair of his tutor to use his higher cultivation to push him around. He Yu wouldn’t gain anything if Fang Yingjie simply bullied him. But then, his spiritual senses told him the truth of things. Fang Yingjie’s cultivation was still suppressed. While he still had the skills, insights, and experience of an early Fourth Realm cultivator, he’d limited the potency of his qi to that of a late First Realm.

“I can do that?” He Yu asked in disbelief.

“You cannot,” Fang Yingjie answered, jabbing a finger at He Yu’s chest. “Not yet. You don’t yet have the appropriate insight, nor the control. Continue to cultivate the Five Crescent Winds should you wish to master its secrets.”

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“What’s the point then?” He Yu sighed. “I need techniques I can use now.” He was being petulant, he knew. But he was frustrated. The end of the grace period grew closer every day, and he still didn’t feel like he was much of a fighter. Better than he had been before coming to the sect, certainly, but he was still only middle Qi Gathering. He might be able to stand up to some of the late First Realms—those with a particular deficiency of talent—but that wasn’t enough.

Fang Yingjie released his guandao, letting it vanish into his storage treasure. “Come,” he said. Without another word he turned, his long stride carrying him towards a path at the far edge of the training area.

Like most of the sect, the training field was a terrace cut from the living stone of the peak itself. Broad and flat, it was paved with flagstones and bounded by formations. Just outside the formation boundary lay the trees, the mountain, and the mists.

The path Fang Yingjie led them down was of packed dirt and flanked by mountain red pine. Boundary stones were spaced at the proper intervals. Because of their proximity to the sect proper, these stones mostly served as practice for the outer sect disciples who studied formation scripts. Mist clung close to the ground as it did everywhere else on the mountain, muting sound and casting the world in diffuse gray. Before long they emerged onto a more natural clearing that overlooked one of the many valleys surrounding the outer sect mountains.

Fang Yingjie indicated a spot near the edge of a sheer drop and then seated himself near the precipice. Once He Yu had taken his place next to the inner sect disciple, Fang Yingjie pointed out over the valley.

“Observe,” he said. “The wind lifts the leaf and carries it where it will. The leaf does not object, nor does it resist. Yet, the leaf always arrives where it was meant to. But from whence does the wind come?”

He Yu scowled. “How is this supposed to help me master the art?”

Fang Yingjie regarded him, his expression betraying no judgment. “How can one master the wind if one does not become like the wind?” he asked.

It was a silly question. How could he be like the wind if he’d not yet mastered it? He said as much, but Fang Yingjie’s reply was silence. For a moment longer He Yu recalled their sparring again.

Without quite realizing what he was doing, he began to cultivate according to the White Mountain technique as he reviewed the day’s lessons. The world faded away, and the insights that had previously eluded him drifted through his meditation.

Fang Yingjie was aggressive, yes. But he was also fluid. He moved with his weapon. The guandao was heavy. That was in its nature. Just like it was the nature of a leaf to fall to the forest floor, or be carried by the wind. Wind could topple trees and wear down mountains, but it could also carry something as delicate as a leaf without harming it. There was, in that distinction a balance. A harmony.

The many sparring sessions He Yu had spent with Li Heng returned to him. Li Heng practiced the Lunar Mirror Sword Art. Its principal technique was the Winter Moon Reflection. The night and moon were aligned with yin. Yin was the receptive force, and Li Heng’s arts revolved around receiving his opponent’s attacks. But he also returned them.

“I strike like the wind and descend with the heavens,” He Yu said, opening his eyes. The truth of that statement resonated with something deep within him. Something connected to the knowledge of the Five Crescent Winds and the techniques it contained.

Fang Yingjie nodded. “Use the nature of your weapon to its fullest. When you have acknowledged the guandao’s nature, then you may truly call forth the winds.”

The final moment of their training came to him again. Fang Yingjie held his guandao aloft in one hand, the metal cap struck the ground, and a burst of wind followed. One by one, the moments leading up to Fang Yingjie’s use of the Bracing Wind technique played out in the eye of He Yu’s mind. He saw how they flowed together—like wind rushing through a mountain valley.

He Yu opened his eyes and bowed from his seated position. “This one thanks Senior Brother Fang,” he said. It was the proper and expected response to lessons, but it was sincere. The insights he’d gained from the day would take weeks to mediate on properly, he was certain, but they would aid him more than any single lesson he’d yet had since joining the sect.

“Before you go,” Fang Yingjie said, withdrawing a brush set and paper from his storage treasure. With practiced strokes that suggested a skill in calligraphy that surpassed the mere ability to write, Fang Yingjie wrote the names of several training manuals.

Handing the scroll to He Yu he said, “Study these manuals. The martial forms they contain will be of use to you. Many are for the spear and the staff, but they apply to the guandao as well. They will supplement Sect Brother Ren’s lessons well, I should think. I look forward to witnessing your progress for myself someday.”

He Yu bowed again, this time pressing his fist into his palm. He took the dismissal for what it was and set his feet on the path that would take him back to the outer sect, and the manual pavilion.