Varian began with a thrust, the dummy springing to life as its wooden arms moved to parry. Just before the staff made contact, he slowed his motion slightly, trying to mimic the technique his father had demonstrated.

  His dreams were not to be, however, as the dummy’s arm deflected his strike entirely out of range, making it so no redirection could possibly hit.

  A week had passed since his training began. Every waking moment was spent either practicing tirelessly or recovering. Progress had been slow but undeniable—there were moments when he felt so close to landing a strike. Yet no matter what he tried, the best he’d managed was grazing the dummy’s surface.

  He should have been proud of the strides he had made, but instead, dissatisfaction gnawed at him. The thought of failure loomed too large to ignore.

  “Your strikes are still too heavy, Varian. Again!” August’s voice rang out, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the young man’s thoughts like a blade.

  Varian could feel himself at the precipice of success, just the tiniest bit of improvement necessary for him to actually be able to hit the dummy, though it continued to elude him.

  He took a deep, steadying breath, loose strands of hair swaying gently across his face. When he had started training for the day, the sun was still creeping above the horizon, its light illuminating the fields. Now, it had long since faded back to the other side, only to return when the moon had had its fill of attention.

  Despite his determination, Varian’s session had come to an end—not by choice, but by his father’s decree.

  Varian wished he could’ve kept testing his own mettle versus that of the dummy, but his father forbade him. “Son, your body needs recuperation. I understand the urgency in you; I, too, was young before,” August grinned. “But your haste will result in a lacking foundation. It must be built bit by bit, just like a house is built slowly from the ground up,” he finished.

  Varian recognized the wisdom in his father's words. That didn't stop the frustration in him from threatening to bubble over, though he calmed himself.

  So, he tried to sleep off his frustration, despite how slumber seemed to actively want to evade him. Varian could see his frustration holding him back, and so, he tried to let it go. Eventually, his eyes closed, his breath stilled, and Varian’s consciousness faded from the forefront of his mind.

  He awoke with difficulty the next day. Though his frustrations lingered, they were buried deep within, replaced by a newfound calm. Varian understood that the only things that would help him succeed were relentless practice and a steady mind.

  “Today will be different,” he vowed quietly to himself.

  After finishing his hearty meal of congee with some vegetables, he made his way to the courtyard. His breaths were deep and steady, each breath reinforcing his resolve.

  As the sun climbed higher, Varian practiced the basic movements of the Foundational Swallow Sweeping Strikes. His body flowed from one motion to the next, muscle memory taking over as hours slipped by.

  His father appeared in an instant. Varian, used to this by now, turned to his dad and smiled, his face serene for once.

  August raised a curious brow, noticing the shift in his son’s demeanor. Slowly, his lips curved into a smile of approval. “Good. You do not always need to feel calm, but you must control your emotions, not let them control you. Tell me, though—should a mere dummy hold such sway over you?” he asked rhetorically, his tone teasing.

  Varian’s smile widened slightly. “Oh, I’m still as frustrated as ever,” he admitted, his gaze locking onto the dummy. “But instead of wasting that frustration…” He trailed off, his focus sharpening like the edge of a blade.

  August shook his head at that. “Well then, prove yourself, Varian!” he declared, his voice laced with challenge.

  Varian nodded, gaze not shifting from the dummy. He inhaled deeply, mustering all the energy his lungs would let him.

  Once he was ready, Varian began his approach. His steps were slow at first, as if he were strolling rather than fighting. But as he neared the dummy, his pace quickened, each stride being fueled by his momentum until he was nearly upon it.

  With a sudden burst of motion, Varian launched a thrust—not with the raw force of his earlier attempts, but with a lighter, more controlled motion.

  As expected, the dummy moved to deflect it. Yet this time, something was different. The staff didn’t fly out of range, nor did it recoil wildly. Instead, it bounced off of its arm lightly, allowing Varian to control the staff properly.

  Varian transitioned into a second strike, fluid and seamless. This strike, too, was light—its strength aided not by Varian's own efforts but by the momentum gained from the deflection.

  Time and again, the sequence repeated itself. Varian would strike, and the dummy would deflect. Slowly, however, his strength started increasing, and his body started accelerating.

  Each deflection added momentum, spinning Varian around like a leaf caught in the wind. He knew there was a flaw that accompanied his approach, however—no real opponent would ever stand idle and allow such an opening. A skilled combatant would exploit his unbalanced movements in an instant.

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  But for this singular purpose, it was perfect.

  Varian felt the strain building in his muscles, exhaustion seeping through his body like a rot. He knew he didn't have much more energy left in him. The time was nigh.

  One more strike.

  With resolve hardening in his chest, he struck once again, a horizontal strike. The dummy deflected his attack as expected, but this time, Varian didn't simply let his body move with the motion of the staff. His grip strengthened, and he started turning in the opposite direction. Twisting the entirety of his body, he channeled every iota of strength within him into this final strike.

  The staff flew at the dummy faster than Varian could have ever swung it on his own. A horizontal slash approached the dummy, this time from the opposite side.

  This was it—his last chance to break through.

  The dummy swung its arms in that familiar, jerky motion—something Varian had grown to hate profoundly. But this time, the same exchange did not occur. Wood hit wood with a resounding crack, yet neither gave way, both stuck in position.

  A grin spread across Varian’s face. His gambit had worked. Seizing the moment, he slid his staff roughly along the dummy’s arm, using its temporary stillness to score a strike along its neck.

  Varian collapsed to the ground, his chest heaving with exhaustion, and his hands still gripping the staff tightly. But instead of the frustration that usually marred his features after an attempt, an expression of joy was present on his face.

  August stared at his son, amusement evident on his face. “You do realize this technique would never work in a real fight, don’t you?” he asked, exasperation coloring his tone.

  Varian turned his head toward his father, a smug smirk creeping up. “Of course. But it doesn’t need to. I hit it, and that’s all that matters right now,” he replied confidently.

  For a moment, his grin lingered, but then his expression shifted, turning serious. “I know this isn’t enough. I want that reward, and I still have a week left to earn it, right?”

  August’s stern gaze softened, his lips curling into a proud smile. “You’ve done well today, Varian. Truly, I mean it. This determination of yours—it will take you far, provided you have the talent for cultivation to match it,” the older man said, his voice warm with approval.

  Varian nodded, his resolve hardening even further. The battle wasn’t over, but today, he had claimed a small victory—and with it, the drive to keep going.

  Varian made his way to the bathing chambers, seeking some respite for both his restless mind and weary body. As the cool water cascaded over him, he felt his worries melt away, carried off in streams that pooled at his feet. In their place came a fleeting sense of calm—a brief reprieve he knew wouldn’t last for long.

  His father’s words, even if meant positively, stuck with him. ‘It will do me well if I have the corresponding talent for cultivation.’ He thought bitterly, the phrase replaying in his mind. The doubt it sparked was like a splinter he couldn’t dislodge, bothering him relentlessly. Varian dried himself off properly and then made his way to his chambers, aiming to leave that bitterness behind him.

  Sleep came to him easily that night, exhaustion working better than any herb or tea could in allowing his body to seek proper relaxation.

  The next day, he awoke easily, dreams of beautiful vistas and endless expanses fading into the morning light. Varian now knew how to strike the dummy properly. Yet, if he wanted the reward his father dangled in his face like one would dangle a carrot in front of a pig, he would have to hit it more than once in a single session.

  So, he resolved himself to practice, determined to make every minute count.

  Each day, Varian improved slowly. He lowered the strength he built up to before attacking, knowing the maneuver would be possible even if the clash between staff and arm didn’t result in a standstill. He refined his movements, maximizing the amount of strength he siphoned off of the dummy’s reflections. Even his staffwork went through strides, pointers, and observations from August, allowing him to wield it with more ease.

  Finally, on the day before the aptitude test, Varian stood in the courtyard for his final attempt. He’d managed to hit the dummy once already, but today, once wasn’t enough. Not for him.

  Ignoring his body’s protests and the fiery ache in his muscles, Varian pressed on. His staff flew in controlled arcs, each strike directed at where a vital point would be on a human opponent. And while the dummy was reflecting everything without too much difficulty, Varian’s strength was accumulating, his confidence building up alongside it.

  Varian’s breath was calm and unbothered as he went for the strike that he knew without a doubt would hit. He had replayed this attempt in his head thousands of times, refining it further and further with every attempt. The dummy caught his thrust, aiming it upwards, yet instead of allowing his staff to be deflected widely, he managed to pivot his foot and aim for the side of the dummy.

  A resounding thump echoed through the courtyard as wood met itself, his second strike landing cleanly.

  Varian’s lips curled into a small smile, pride blooming in his chest. Then, unexpectedly, he began to laugh—soft at first, then heartily, at the absurdity of his pride in hitting a dummy twice catching up to him.

  August joined in too, knowing exactly why his son was feeling the way he did. “You’ve improved, son,” he said warmly, though a teasing edge crept into his tone. “Even if I wish you had focused on technique rather than a trick,” he chided lightly.

  Varian snorted at that, knowing he couldn’t possibly have actually gotten to that level in two weeks without it being lopsided in one way or another. Then, his expression shifted, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “So, what about my reward?”

  August smirked, crossing his arms. “All in due time. For now, tomorrow’s a big day. Go and rest,” he commanded firmly, leaving no room for argument.

  Varian furrowed his brows in confusion. “Don’t I need to go back for the test?”

  August chuckled lightly at that. “No, the aptitude tests will take place in the outer sect itself. They’ll be here tomorrow, just as the sun peeks over the horizon. Tomorrow, your fate will be decided,” he explained, his tone steady but laced with unspoken significance. “I know how you feel, Varian. I’ve been there myself. But worrying will help nothing. Rest now.”

  The young man felt like a lump of coal was stuck in his throat but nodded woodenly, retreating to his room.

  That night, he tossed and turned on his straw bed, his mind refusing to quiet. The hours crept by, and sleep only came to him when the moon stood high in the heavens, its gentle light casting a silvery glow over the world.