Dual Cultivation Path

The dining hall of the Verdant Crest Academy buzzed faintly behind Roderic Vane as he stepped into the afternoon sun, the elixir-infused lunch still warming his core, its qi tingling in his meridians—fire and spirit pulsing stronger with every bite. His patched tunic hung bare without his novice robe, now draped over Cressida Lorne's shoulders, a shield against the coffee spill and perverts' stares. Barnaby Quill walked beside him, his red robe swishing, sandy blond hair glinting as he laughed about the incident, while Theobald Finch—Theo—trailed with a quiet smirk, his jet-black hair swept back, gray eyes glinting with amusement at Roderic's bold move.

"That was wild," Barnaby said, clapping Roderic's shoulder, his lopsided smile wide. "Cressida looked ready to freeze that adept solid—then you swoop in with the robe. Hero stuff."

"More like dumb luck," Roderic replied, grinning faintly, rubbing the spot on his head where she'd smacked him the day before. "Didn't want her blasting me instead."

Theo's smirk deepened, his deep red robe faintly singed at the edges. "Smart play—seniors don't take kindly to messes. You've got a knack for dodging trouble."

"Or stepping into it," Roderic muttered, his mind flickering to Cressida's wet robe—those full breasts outlined, her fury clashing with her allure—and then to Seraphina Blaze's fiery figure from class. The heat in his gut simmered, lust a constant undercurrent he couldn't shake, but he shoved it down, focusing on the trio's chatter as they crossed the academy grounds.

The path wound past training fields—qi flashing in bursts as disciples sparred—and gardens of spirit herbs glowing under arrays, the air thick with their faint hum. The novice dorms loomed ahead, gray stone buildings with curved roofs, but a disciple in a gray tunic intercepted them, her steps brisk, a scroll clutched in hand. "Roderic Vane," she said, voice clipped, eyes flicking over his bare tunic. "Elder Maris requests you—Inner Crest, third tower. Now."

"Elder Maris?" Roderic asked, brow furrowing, his grin faltering. "What for?"

"Special technique," she replied, turning away without elaboration. "Don't dawdle."

Barnaby raised an eyebrow, his smile curious. "Special, huh? That beyond-white qi's got them buzzing."

"Guess so," Roderic said, exhaling, glancing at the dorms. "Catch you later—don't eat my share if they serve seconds."

Theo nodded, his gray eyes glinting. "We'll hold the fort. Don't get lost again."

Roderic grinned, waving them off as they headed to the east wing, then turned toward the Inner Crest—a cluster of taller towers at the academy's heart, their jade tiles shimmering under the sun. The third tower rose sleek and narrow, its white stone veined with gold, its peaked roof crowned with a spire that hummed faintly with qi. A carved door of pale wood stood ajar, flanked by no guards—only a subtle shimmer of an array marking its entrance, parting as Roderic approached.

Inside, a spiral stair of polished marble wound upward, its walls etched with runes that glowed softly, casting a golden light that danced across his patched tunic. The air was warm, tinged with lotus and a faint, ethereal hum, each step echoing in the quiet. He climbed, his core pulsing with anticipation—special technique, the disciple had said, a perk of his unprecedented talent—and reached a landing where a single door of golden oak awaited, its surface carved with a crescent moon.

He knocked, the sound sharp, and a voice—soft, melodic, yet commanding—called from within. "Enter, Roderic Vane."

The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a chamber that stole his breath. Walls of pale gold stone shimmered with inlaid amber veins, a domed ceiling of stained glass depicting swirling spirits in hues of gold and blue, casting a kaleidoscope of light across a floor of white marble veined with silver. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with scrolls and tomes bound in shimmering silk, while a low table of carved jade held a single brazier, its flame burning blue and smokeless. At the room's center stood Elder Maris, and Roderic's jaw dropped, his grin vanishing into wide-eyed awe.

She was in her thirties, her beauty out of this world—prettier than any woman he'd seen in Hearth Hollow, surpassing even the youthful charm of Cressida and Seraphina with a mature, sexual appeal that hit him like a wave. Her skin was ethereal, a luminous ivory that seemed to glow with an inner light, flawless and smooth, radiating a serenity that belied her age. Her hair flowed in waves of platinum blonde, streaked with silver, cascading past her shoulders to frame a face of striking elegance—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes of deep emerald, lips full and painted a soft rose. Her robe—silver threaded with gold—clung to a figure that was less about raw curves and more about refined allure: breasts modest but pert, their shape hinted at beneath the silk, but her ass—gods, her ass—was fat and round, a plump swell that strained the fabric with every subtle shift, its sensual curve drawing his gaze like a magnet.

She turned fully, her emerald eyes locking onto his, her presence a quiet storm of power—her qi a subtle hum that filled the room, marking her as one of the academy's elite. "Roderic Vane," she said, her voice a melody that stoked the heat in his gut, "I am Elder Maris Veyle, your appointed mentor. Your talent—beyond measure—demands guidance beyond the novice curriculum."

Roderic swallowed, his lust flaring wild and unbidden, his cock hardening in his patched trousers as he stared. Her ethereal skin, that fat ass swaying faintly as she stepped closer—his mind spiraled, imagining her robe slipping off, her ivory flesh bare, his hands gripping that plump ass, lips brushing her pert breasts as she arched against him. She was prettier than the village girls, sexier than the seniors, her thirties only deepening her appeal, and he barely heard her words, lost in the fantasy of tasting her, the urge to bury himself in her overwhelming.

"You listening, boy?" she asked, her tone sharpening, emerald eyes narrowing as she stopped before him, hands on her hips—accentuating that ass even more.

"Y—yeah," he stammered, blinking, his grin shaky as he forced his gaze up, face flushing red. "Mentor, huh? Special technique?"

Her lips twitched, a faint smirk breaking her serene mask, as if she sensed his distraction but let it slide. "Yes," she said, turning to a shelf, her robe swishing, that fat ass swaying in a way that nearly undid him. She retrieved a slim scroll bound in red silk, its edges glowing faintly with runes, and handed it to him, her fingers brushing his—cool, soft, sparking his qi. "This is the Flame Soul Art—a technique from the Inner Crest, blending fire and spirit. It channels your dual affinities, amplifies your core's depth. Study it, practice it—I'll guide you personally."

He took the scroll, its weight solid, the runes warm under his touch, but his eyes drifted back to her—her ethereal skin glowing in the stained-glass light, her ass a perfect curve he ached to grasp. "Thanks," he said, voice rough, lust coiling tight, his cock throbbing as he imagined her guiding him in more than just cultivation—her body pressed close, her rose-painted lips whispering against his ear. She was out of his league, a mentor in her thirties, one of Hearth Hollow's prettiest, and the gap only fueled his desire.

Maris tilted her head, emerald eyes glinting with a knowing edge. "Focus, Vane," she said, voice firm but laced with amusement. "Your talent's rare—don't waste it on wandering thoughts. We'll meet thrice weekly—here. Be prompt."

"Right," he said, nodding, clutching the scroll tighter, his grin returning despite the flush. "Won't be late."

"Go," she said, turning back to the brazier, her ass swaying as she moved, the silver-gold robe clinging just enough to tease. "Study that tonight—bring questions next time."

Roderic left, the door thudding shut behind him, his steps unsteady as he descended the spiral stair, the Flame Soul Art in hand. Her figure—ethereal, alluring, sexually appealing—burned in his mind, prettier than the young girls, her fat ass and rose lips a vision he couldn't shake. His lust pulsed, a need he knew he'd have to address soon, but Maris Veyle, his mentor, was another beauty beyond his reach—yet one he'd see again, her guidance a promise laced with temptation.