Dual Cultivation Path

The sun dipped low over the Verdant Crest Academy as Roderic Vane trudged back to the east wing novice dorm, the Flame Soul Art scroll clutched in his hand, its red silk warm against his callused palm. Elder Maris Veyle's ethereal beauty—her luminous ivory skin, platinum hair, and that fat, alluring ass—still burned in his mind, her melodic voice echoing: "Study it, practice it—I'll guide you." His core thrummed with qi, fire and spirit pulsing in harmony, but the heat in his gut flared hotter, lust stoked by her figure, Cressida's curves, Seraphina's fire—a need he couldn't quench yet, not with women so far above his novice rank.

The dorm's gray stone facade loomed ahead, its curved roof casting long shadows across the dirt path. Barnaby Quill and Theobald Finch had already settled in—Barnaby's laugh echoing from Room 10, Theo's quiet presence a shadow in Room 14—but Roderic beelined for Room 12, his cramped corner of the world. The wooden door creaked open, revealing four straw pallets, a warped table, and a rusty lantern flickering dimly against the mud walls. His roommates—two clan boys and a free admit—were out, likely lingering over dinner or drills, leaving him alone with the scroll and the night.

He sank onto his pallet, straw crunching under his patched tunic, and unrolled the Flame Soul Art, its runes glowing faintly—spirals of fire entwined with ethereal wisps, pulsing red and gold. Maris had called it an Inner Crest technique, blending his dual affinities to amplify his core's depth. He exhaled, steadying his breath, and began—cross-legged, hands resting on his knees, the scroll spread before him, his hazel eyes tracing its lines as he sank inward.

Cultivation, he'd learned, was about channeling qi—refining it, growing it, bending it to will. The Flame Soul Art demanded more: it fused fire's raw power with spirit's ethereal flow, a dance of heat and essence within his core. He closed his eyes, reaching for the flame at his center—that vast, steady blaze the relic had forged—and let it flare, a controlled surge of red-gold qi spiraling up his meridians. The scroll's first step hummed in his mind: Ignite the soul's ember, let fire breathe through spirit.

His qi responded, splitting—fire roaring hot and wild, spirit weaving cool and fluid—then merging, a swirling vortex in his chest that pulsed with a dual rhythm. He guided it, breath slow and deep, the heat spreading to his limbs, the spirit threading through his meridians like mist, widening them further. Sweat beaded on his brow, the room's chill fading as his body glowed faintly, red light flickering under his skin, gold wisps curling from his breath—a sign of the technique taking root.

The process deepened—hours slipping by, the lantern guttering out, moonlight slicing through the shuttered window. He visualized the runes, fire igniting spirit, spirit tempering fire, a cycle that burned away impurities in his qi, sharpening its edge. His core expanded, a furnace stoked by will, its walls stretching as the relic's vast potential unfurled. Pain flared—meridians straining, muscles tensing—but he pressed on, the scroll's words a mantra: Let the flame consume, let the soul endure. By dawn, his qi flowed smoother, stronger—fire a blazing torrent, spirit a steady tide, their union a power he felt in his bones.

He opened his eyes as sunlight crept through the shutters, the scroll dim now, its runes spent. His tunic clung damp with sweat, his body aching yet alive, qi pulsing with a new depth. He grinned, shaky but triumphant—the Flame Soul Art was his, a step toward the strength he'd promised Tansy. The heat in his gut lingered, lust still simmering, but cultivation had dulled it, focus trumping desire—for now.

He stood, stretching, and grabbed his spare red robe from the table, the silk cool against his skin as he slipped it on. Barnaby met him outside, his own red robe rumpled, sandy hair wild from sleep, pale blue eyes blinking awake. "Morning," he yawned, grinning. "You look beat—up all night?"

"Yeah," Roderic said, his grin wider, running a hand through his dark hair. "Got a technique—Flame Soul Art. Cultivated till now. It's strong—fire and spirit together."

Barnaby whistled, impressed. "No wonder you're glowing. Sleep later—Spirit HQ for you, Wind for me. Ready?"

"Always," Roderic said, and they parted—Barnaby west to the Wind HQ, Roderic east to the Spirit HQ, the academy stirring with morning drills and chatter.

The Spirit Element HQ glowed under the rising sun, its pale gold dome veined with amber, its air warm and serene with sandalwood and a faint hum. Roderic stepped inside, the sanctuary's walls etched with ethereal runes, stained glass casting multicolored light across the amber marble floor. Novices in red robes filled benches facing a platform, where a young man stood—not an elder, but a senior-class student, his amber robe shimmering, his talent evident in his poised stance. He was lean, with short brown hair and bright hazel eyes, a friendly grin breaking his sharp features—perhaps 21, a prodigy mentoring novices.

"I'm Lysander Holt," he said, voice clear and warm, gesturing to a crystal slate. "Senior class, spirit affinity. Today's lecture—spirit's essence: connection, flow, transcendence. Listen up."

Roderic settled near the front, the Flame Soul Art still pulsing in his core, Lysander's words sinking in—spirit as a bridge, linking body and qi, amplifying will. His mind drifted, though—not to lust this time, but to Cressida's dorm. His robe waited there, and he'd claim it after class, maybe nudge her for a thank-you. Lysander's lecture flowed—runes drawn, qi demonstrated in faint gold wisps—but Roderic's focus held, the technique grounding him until the hour ended.

He left, the sun higher now, and trekked to the upper-class female dorm—a grand building of carved stone and flowering vines, its lotus-carved door a memory of his misadventure. He knocked, a disciple ushering him to Cressida's room—third floor, end of the hall. Her door cracked open, her violet eyes narrowing through the gap, her black hair spilling loose, silver-blue robe pristine again. "You," she said, voice icy, blocking entry. "Here for your rag?"

"My robe, yeah," Roderic said, grinning, leaning against the frame. "Saved you yesterday—how about letting me in? A drink as thanks?"

Her lips thinned, fury flaring, but something shifted—her gaze softening, lingering on him longer than it should. "No boys allowed," she snapped, but her tone wavered, her hand hesitating on the door. Since the relic, an aura had grown around him—subtle, magnetic, drawing eyes he didn't yet notice—and it tugged at her, softening her usual disdain. She'd never let a boy in, not the leering novices or smug adepts, but Roderic's presence—tall, lean, his grin disarming—stirred her despite herself.

"Exceptions for heroes," he pressed, his voice light, unaware of the relic's pull, only sensing her reluctance crack. "Just a drink—I won't snoop."

She scoffed, violet eyes flashing, but stepped back, opening the door wider. "Fine—one drink, then out. Touch nothing, pervert." Her room glowed—silk drapes, a jade table, a faint frost in the air—and Roderic entered, his grin widening, the aura weaving its quiet spell.

Roderic stepped into Cressida Lorne's dorm room, the door thudding shut behind him with a soft click, sealing him in a space that felt worlds apart from the drab novice quarters he called home. The chamber glowed with understated opulence—walls of pale stone draped with silver silk, their sheen catching the afternoon light streaming through a tall window framed in frosted glass. A jade table sat at the center, its surface etched with delicate snowflake runes, flanked by two cushioned chairs upholstered in deep blue velvet. A faint frost hung in the air, the scent of mint and lavender threading through it, a testament to Cressida's ice affinity. Shelves of polished wood lined one wall, stacked with scrolls and crystal vials, while a low brazier burned with a cool, blue flame, casting flickering shadows across the room.

Cressida stood near the table, her silver-blue robe pristine once more, her long black hair cascading past her waist in glossy waves, violet eyes sharp with lingering irritation. "Sit," she said, her voice icy but less biting than before, gesturing to one chair as she turned to a small sidebar—a slab of ice sculpted into a counter, holding a silver teapot and cups. "One drink, then you're gone. Don't get comfortable."

Roderic's grin widened, undeterred by her tone, and he sank into the chair, the velvet soft against his patched tunic, a luxury he'd never known in Hearth Hollow. "Comfort's already here," he said, leaning back, his red robe—returned by a silent disciple at the door—draped over his arm. "Thanks for not freezing me out there."

She scoffed, her back to him as she poured tea from the pot, steam rising in delicate curls, tinged with a faint blue glow—ice-infused, no doubt. "Don't flatter yourself, quarry rat," she muttered, her black hair swaying as she moved, her lush figure—full breasts, wide hips, curved ass—still pulling at his gaze despite her frost. "I'd rather not owe anyone—especially you. This is repayment, nothing more."

She set a silver cup before him, the tea a pale azure, its surface shimmering with qi, and took the opposite chair, her posture stiff, violet eyes watching him like a hawk. Roderic lifted the cup, the metal cool against his callused fingers, and took a sip—its taste crisp and sharp, mint bursting on his tongue, a subtle sweetness cutting through, the qi tingling as it slid down his throat, stoking the fire and spirit in his core. He savored it, letting out a low hum, his hazel eyes glinting with appreciation. "Damn, that's good," he said, leaning back further, the chair creaking under his tall frame. "Beats well water and stale bread."

Cressida's lips twitched, a flicker of curiosity breaking her icy mask, though she hid it behind a sip of her own tea. "Well water?" she asked, her tone sharp but edged with intrigue, setting her cup down with a faint clink. "That's what you lived on?"

"Most days," Roderic said, grinning faintly, swirling the tea in his cup. "Life's unbalanced—some get silver cups, some get dirt. Me and Tansy—my sister—we scraped by. Quarry dust, thin soup, a shack that leaked every rain. You?"

She tilted her head, black hair spilling over one shoulder, her violet eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. "House Lorne," she said, her voice clipped, a hint of pride threading through. "Nobles—old blood, older wealth. Estates in the Hollow's north, servants, tutors, qi herbs from birth. I've never lacked—never suffered. It's expected."

"Expected," Roderic echoed, his grin softening into something wry, taking another sip, the tea's cool burn grounding him. "Must be nice—never wondering where your next meal's coming from, never breaking your back for coppers."

Her brow furrowed, a rare crack in her haughty facade, and she leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, her robe shifting to hint at her curves—curves he fought to ignore, though the heat in his gut flared. "And you survived that?" she asked, her tone less scornful, more probing. "How? The poor—how do you not just… give up?"

Roderic shrugged, setting his cup down, the qi tingling in his chest as he met her gaze. "You don't," he said, voice steady, hazel eyes glinting with a fire she couldn't quite place. "You fight—claw your way up, take what you can. Tansy scrubbed pots, I hauled stone, we shared what we had. 

 Poor fellows like me—we survive because we have to."

Cressida's violet eyes widened faintly, her fingers tightening on her cup, the frost in the air softening as she processed his words. " quite a struggle" she murmured, almost to herself. 

"Lucky you," Roderic said, grinning again, though his tone held no bitterness, only truth. "Unbalance—nobles get gold, we get grit. Guess that's why I'm here—balancing it out."

She scoffed, but it lacked venom, her gaze lingering on him—his lean frame, his disarming grin, an aura she couldn't name tugging at her senses. Since the relic, something had shifted in him—a subtle, magnetic pull that made girls glance twice, a charm he didn't yet see. It softened her usual disdain, letting him sit here when she'd have iced out any other boy.

Movement caught his eye—two female servants gliding in from a side door, their silver-gray tunics marking them as Cressida's attendants. One carried a tray of iced cakes, her brown hair tied back, her face plain but kind. The other drew Roderic's stare—a young woman, perhaps 20, with chestnut hair in loose waves, her skin a warm tan, her figure sexy in its own right. She wasn't as breathtaking as Cressida—lacking the noble's lush curves and violet-eyed allure—but her beauty shone differently: pert breasts pressing against her tunic, a slender waist flaring into round hips, and an ass that swayed with a quiet confidence as she set a pitcher of water on the table.

Her hazel eyes—lighter than his, flecked with gold—met his, a shy smile tugging her lips, and Roderic's breath hitched, lust flaring anew. She wasn't Cressida, but gods, she was appealing—her figure stirring the heat he'd fought all night with the Flame Soul Art. He glanced again, catching her eyes a second time, her smile widening faintly, a silent spark passing between them. His cock twitched, the tea's coolness no match for the fire she stoked, and he shifted in his seat, savoring its taste to mask the flush creeping up his neck.

Cressida noticed. Her violet eyes flicked between them, narrowing as the servant lingered, pouring water with a grace that kept Roderic's gaze. "Enough," she snapped, her voice icy again, frost curling from her breath as she glared at the girl. "Lira, stop dawdling—out." Then she turned to Roderic, her stare cutting. "And you—stop leering, pervert. You're as bad as her."

The servant—Lira—flushed, bowing hastily, her chestnut hair swaying as she retreated with the other, the door clicking shut. Roderic blinked, his grin sheepish, caught off-guard. "What? I was just—"

"Staring," Cressida cut in, her tone sharp, though a faint flush colored her olive cheeks—anger or something else, he couldn't tell. "Pervert—both of you. That's my servant, not your toy."

"Didn't say she was," Roderic said, raising his hands, his grin steady despite the heat pounding in his chest. "Good tea, good talk—didn't mean to stare."

She scoffed, setting her cup down with a clink, her black hair spilling as she stood. "Drink's done—take your robe and go. Don't test me again."

He stood, slinging the red robe over his shoulder, the tea's qi still tingling, his eyes flicking to her—then the door where Lira had vanished. "Thanks, Cressida," he said, his voice light, the relic's aura weaving its subtle charm. "See you around."

"Out," she snapped, but her gaze lingered, violet eyes tracing him as he left, the door thudding shut behind him, leaving her with a frown she couldn't explain.