Getting repeatedly almost-murdered, Jon was discovering, was an experience that really put life into perspective. Like how he'd once thought his high school gym teacher was intimidating. Or how he'd complained about that one time he had to run a mile for PE.

  Right now, he would have gladly run a hundred miles if it meant not having to dodge another one of those hair-thin qi blades that kept slicing through trees like they were made of butter.

  The most infuriating part wasn't even the near-death experiences - it was the white-haired bastard's complete lack of effort. Here was Jon, moving faster than he'd ever moved in his life, burning through qi like a madman just to stay alive, and what was his opponent doing? Smoking his pipe. Actually smoking his pipe, as if this was just a pleasant afternoon stroll that happened to include attempted murder.

  "Your footwork is improving," the man commented casually. "Though your weight distribution could use some work."

  Jon wanted to respond with something witty and devastating. What came out instead was more of a wheezing grunt as he rolled behind a boulder, which promptly split in half with a sound like silk tearing.

  Just one hit. That's all he wanted. One solid punch to that smug, perfectly composed face. Was that really too much to ask?

  Jon had been paying attention - for all the good it did him. The man's attacks followed a pattern: three quick strikes, then that insufferable moment where he'd pause to "critique" Jon's performance. It was meant to be demoralizing, but it was also predictable.

  So when the third blade of qi whistled past his ear, taking a few strands of hair with it, Jon didn't dodge backward like he had been. Instead, he did something monumentally stupid. He charged forward.

  The look of mild surprise on the white-haired man's face was almost worth the suicidal gambit. Almost.

  He'd learned something interesting during his fishing adventures - qi didn't just have to push or pull. It could slide. Like creating currents in a stream, but with air. So as he rushed forward, he let his qi spread out around him, not fighting the man's overwhelming pressure but redirecting it, letting it slip past him like water around a stone.

  It wasn't perfect - he could feel dozens of small cuts opening across his skin where his technique faltered - but it got him close. Close enough to see the man's eyes widen slightly. Close enough to throw everything he had into one perfect punch, backed by every scrap of qi he could muster.

  For a brief, glorious moment, Jon thought he might actually connect.

  The white-haired man's pipe vanished. Not with any flourish or dramatic gesture - it simply ceased to be in his hand, as if it had never existed. His movement was so fluid it seemed almost lazy, like watching water flow downhill. One moment he was standing there, the next he had shifted ever so slightly to the side, letting Jon's punch pass through empty air.

  But there was nothing lazy about the gleam in his eyes.

  "Fascinating," he murmured, and for the first time since their encounter began, there wasn't a trace of amusement in his voice. His hand snapped out, faster than Jon's eyes could track, catching Jon's extended wrist. "Using the principles of water manipulation in aerial qi circulation... and you developed this while fishing?"

  "Dude," Jon finally managed through gritted teeth, his arm still locked in that unbreakable grip. "Could you at least pretend I'm not some kid you're humoring? The whole 'fascinating specimen' thing is getting old."

  The white-haired man's eyebrows rose marginally. "My apologies. Force of habit, I'm afraid. When you've lived as long as I have-"

  "No offense taken," Jon cut him off, and then did something that went against every survival instinct he possessed. He stopped fighting against the grip on his wrist. Instead, he stepped closer, as if accepting defeat.

  The man's grip loosened ever so slightly.

  In that fraction of a second, Jon released every bit of qi he'd been gathering - not in his trapped arm, but in his chest. The lightning technique he'd been practicing in secret (mostly to heat bath water, if he was honest) erupted between them with a crack that shook leaves from the trees.

  The flash was blinding. The thunder was deafening. And most importantly, it worked.

  Holy shit, it actually worked!

  The thought blazed through Jon's mind as he sprinted through the forest, his legs burning, his lungs on fire. He'd actually caught the smug bastard off guard. The image of the man's expression shifting from calculated interest to genuine surprise was seared into his memory, right alongside the force of the blast that had sent them both flying in opposite directions.

  Trees blurred past. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he pushed qi into his legs, running faster than he'd ever moved in his life. His whole body thrummed with electricity, hair standing on end, skin tingling with residual energy.

  He'd just thunderclapped one of those hidden masters right in the face! Han was never going to believe-

  Han.

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  "HAN!" The name tore from his throat, loud enough to echo off the mountains. "HAAAN! COMPANY!"

  His voice cracked on the second shout, but he didn't care.

  Suddenly, a rustle to his left. A grunt that sounded too deep to be human. Jon's instincts screamed before his mind could process what was happening. He grabbed the nearest tree trunk, qi surging through his arms, and ripped it free from the ground just as something massive burst through the foliage.

  The improvised club caught the blur of white mid-leap, sending it crashing through the underbrush. The tree splintered in Jon's hands from the impact. Whatever he'd hit, it was solid.

  Then it stood up.

  The white tiger was the size of a small car, its shoulders easily reaching Jon's chest. Muscles rippled under fur that seemed to glow in the dappled forest light. But it was the eyes that froze Jon in place - they weren't animal eyes. They held an intelligence that made his skin crawl, and they were currently fixed on him with predatory focus.

  On any other day, Jon would have had something to say about this. A quip about oversized house cats, maybe, or a comment about how this was definitely not covered in his cultivator training manual. But right now, staring into eyes that looked like they belonged in a face several thousand years old, his usual smartass commentary had abandoned him completely.

  His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  The tiger moved.

  Not with the dramatic buildup of a movie scene - one moment it was still, the next it was already mid-strike, massive paw sweeping through the space where Jon's head had been a fraction of a second earlier. He felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair as he ducked.

  His body reacted on autopilot, muscle memory from weeks of training taking over where his brain had short-circuited. He rolled under the next swipe, came up inside the tiger's guard - and immediately realized his mistake. The beast was faster at close range, its movements liquid grace despite its size. A paw the size of a dinner plate caught him in the chest.

  Jon flew backward, qi barely cushioning the impact as he slammed through a bush. He scrambled to his feet, leaves and twigs falling from his hair, just in time to see the tiger coiling for another spring.

  The pieces clicked together in his mind as he dodged another swipe that took bark off the tree behind him. White hair, white tiger - this wasn't a coincidence. Which meant going backward wasn't an option; that cultivator was probably already in pursuit, and Jon doubted he'd appreciate the impromptu lightning show.

  But forward meant dealing with what felt like a mountain of muscle and murder currently trying to separate his head from his shoulders.

  The tiger's claws caught him as he rolled, raking across his back. Pain blazed white-hot through his nervous system. His qi instinctively hardened, preventing the wounds from going deep, but he could feel warm blood soaking through his shirt.

  Time seemed to slow. The tiger was circling now, its movements carrying that same liquid grace as its master. Two opponents, same style. Same weakness?

  Jon let his qi flow outward, just like before - but this time, he wasn't trying to redirect anything. He was creating a current. The tiger sensed it, muscles bunching to pounce. Perfect.

  The beast launched itself forward just as Jon released the gathered energy. Lightning crackled between them, the thunderclap even louder than before. The tiger's momentum combined with the blast sent it cartwheeling through the air with a surprised yowl that would have been comical in any other situation.

  Jon didn't wait to see where it landed. He was already running, each step sending fresh spikes of pain through his torn back. The path to Han's house couldn't be far now. Blood pounded in his ears, keeping rhythm with his footfalls as he pushed himself harder, faster.

  Behind him, an enraged roar shook the forest canopy. It was answered by a more distant sound - something between a laugh and a sigh.

  Jon ran faster.

  The little house finally appeared through the trees - and Jon's heart stuttered. Han's familiar straw hat drifted lazily in the evening breeze, caught on a broken beam. Half the roof was simply... gone. Splinters and debris littered the usually immaculate garden, and there were scorch marks on what remained of the walls.

  This wasn't right. Han was supposed to be fine. That's why Jon had run here in the first place - Han could handle anything. Jon had imagined him being able to split mountains, had watched him catch projectiles with his teeth just to make a point. The plan had been simple: get to Han, let him deal with the white-haired menace, maybe learn something from watching the fight.

  But the confident, almost playful way that man said Han was being taken care of... The casual dismissal...

  A knot of dread settled in his stomach as he stared at that bobbing straw hat.

  "OLD MAN!" The shout ripped from his raw throat. "HANG IN THERE! I'M COMING!"

  The words echoed through the clearing, and some distant part of Jon's mind wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. What exactly did he think he could do that Han couldn't? But his legs were already moving, carrying him toward the ruined house, his back still bleeding, his muscles screaming in protest.

  Jon burst through the splintered doorway, qi crackling erratically around his hands - and froze. The inside of the house was worse than the outside. Han's prized tea set lay shattered across the floor, centuries-old scrolls were scattered and torn, and there, standing in the middle of it all...

  A woman.

  She was tall, impossibly tall, with hair as dark as the white-haired man's was pale. She held Han's favorite jade cup in one hand, examining it with the kind of casual interest someone might show a moderately interesting insect. Her robes were immaculate despite the destruction around her, flowing like liquid shadow.

  When she turned to look at Jon, her eyes held the same ancient intelligence as the tiger's. But where the beast's gaze had been predatory, hers was simply... amused. As if she'd been waiting for him to arrive, like this was all some elaborate stage play reaching its natural conclusion.

  She didn't take a fighting stance. She didn't make any threatening moves. She just smiled, and somehow that was infinitely worse than any show of force could have been.

  The jade cup clinked softly as she set it down on the remains of Han's table.

  "Old man!" The words burst from Jon's throat before he could think, his eyes scanning the debris-filled room. A cough from the corner drew his attention, dust swirling in its wake. "Are you alright?"

  "What are you doing here, fool boy?" Han's voice came rough and irritated from beneath a collapsed shelf.

  The woman's smile widened, her head tilting with theatrical curiosity. "Oh? Is this your grandson, Thunder King? Or perhaps a disciple?"

  "Neither." Han emerged from the rubble like an annoyed cat, brushing dust from his shoulders. "Just a foolish boy who doesn't know when to mind his own business."

  Jon's hands clenched into fists. Han's robes were torn and stained with dirt. A thin line of blood traced down from his temple, dripping onto his collar. It wasn't much - barely a scratch by cultivator standards - but something in Jon's chest ignited at the sight. The casual disrespect of it all, the way she'd invaded Han's space, broken his things, drawn his blood...

  Qi surged through his body, making the remaining windows rattle in their frames. The woman's smile didn't falter, but her eyes sharpened, focusing on him with sudden interest. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

  "Jon." Han's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Stand down."