Dual Cultivation Path

Roderic Vane woke with the dawn, a restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. The shack was still, Tansy's soft snores drifting from beyond the sack curtain, the faint scent of yesterday's broth lingering in the air. He hadn't slept much—too wired from the qi humming in his core, too caught up in what he'd done in the scrubland. The fight with Dren and the others replayed in his mind: the ease of his movements, the strength in his fists, the way his qi had answered him without hesitation. It wasn't a dream. It was real, and it was his.

He sat up on his straw pallet, the mud wall cool against his back, and flexed his hands. The qi flowed smoothly now, a steady current through meridians that felt wider, stronger, alive. The relic's shards had given him this—a gift he still didn't fully grasp—but it was enough. Enough to change everything. His gaze drifted to the ceiling crack, where a sliver of gray light crept in, and a grin tugged at his lips. The Verdant Crest Academy. Today, he'd go. Not as a laborer staring from the quarry, but as a cultivator, ready to claim a spot among them.

He'd heard the rumors—every year, the academy opened its gates for a test, a chance for the talented to join without coin or clan backing. If your qi was strong, if your core shone bright, they'd take you for free, train you, make you one of their own. Roderic had never dared before—his weak spark wouldn't have lit a candle, let alone impressed a sect elder. But now? Now he felt it, the flame in his chest, modest but real, pulsing with a power he'd never known. He could pass. He would pass.

He stood, brushing straw from his patched trousers, and pulled on his boots. The heat was there again—that strange, insistent simmer in his gut—but he pushed it down, chalking it up to nerves and excitement. No time for distractions. He stepped into the main room, grabbing the last scrap of flatbread Tansy had left, and chewed it as he slipped out the door. She'd be up soon, wondering where he'd gone, but he'd tell her later—when he had a disciple's robe to show her, when he could prove their days of scraping by were over.

Hearth Hollow stirred around him, the morning sun casting long shadows over the mud huts and crooked lanes. Vendors hauled carts to the market, their shouts mingling with the clatter of wheels, while children darted past, chasing a stray dog. Roderic walked with purpose, his tall frame cutting through the crowd, hazel eyes fixed on the hill beyond the village. The Verdant Crest Academy loomed there, its spires piercing the sky, jade tiles glinting like a promise. He'd watched it every day from the quarry, a distant dream. Now it was a destination.

The path steepened as he left the village behind, winding through patchy fields and scrub until the academy's gates came into view. They were massive—black iron wrought with coiling vines, flanked by stone pillars carved with runes that glowed faintly, even in daylight. A crowd milled before them: dozens of hopefuls, some in fine silks with clan crests, others in rough homespun like his own. Guards in green robes stood watch, spears crossed, their gazes stern as they waved registrants through. Roderic's pulse quickened, but his grin held. He belonged here now.

He joined the throng, weaving past a boy clutching a jade token and a girl muttering chants under her breath. The air buzzed with nervous chatter—talk of the test, of qi levels, of elders who could shatter mountains. Roderic kept his head up, qi humming in his veins, confidence swelling with every step. The relic had chosen him, strengthened him. He wasn't the weakling they'd expect. He'd show them.

A ripple of laughter cut through the noise, sharp and mocking. Roderic glanced left, catching a knot of students—academy disciples, their green robes crisp, blades at their hips—leaning against a pillar, eyeing the crowd. One, a broad-shouldered boy with a sneer, locked onto him. "Oi, isn't that the quarry rat?" he called, voice loud enough to turn heads. "Vane, right? The shovel boy?"

Roderic's jaw tightened, but he kept walking, pretending not to hear. The boy—Jorin Tal, he realized, the fire qi braggart he'd seen from the quarry—pushed off the pillar, his cronies trailing him. "What's this?" Jorin said, stepping into Roderic's path, arms crossed. "Low-life laborer thinks he's a cultivator now? Did Tarn give you a day off to play pretend?"

The others snickered—a wiry girl with a braid, a stocky boy with a scar on his cheek. Roderic stopped, meeting Jorin's gaze, qi tingling in his fists. "I'm here for the test," he said, voice steady. "Same as anyone."

Jorin barked a laugh, loud and harsh. "The test? You? Look at you—rags and dirt, stinking of sweat. What're you gonna do, shovel your way in?" The wiry girl smirked, twirling a dagger, while the scarred boy spat into the dirt. "Go back to the rocks, Vane. This isn't your place."

Roderic's grin faded, heat flaring—not just the strange simmer, but anger now, sharp and hot. He'd faced sneers before, but this stung deeper, scraping at the years of watching them pass while he broke his back. "Step aside," he said, low and firm, qi coiling tighter. He wouldn't fight—not here, not yet—but the urge flexed in his hands.

Jorin leaned closer, breath sour with wine. "Or what, quarry rat? You'll cry to Tarn?" He shoved Roderic's shoulder, a lazy push, but Roderic's qi steadied him, boots rooted to the ground. Jorin blinked, surprise flickering, then sneered again. "Lucky stance. Doesn't mean you've got anything worth testing."

"Enough, Jorin," a voice snapped—a guard, spear tapping the stone. "Let him through. Registration's closing soon." Jorin smirked, stepping back with a mock bow, his cronies trailing him as they melted into the crowd, their laughter lingering like a taunt.

Roderic exhaled, unclenching his fists, and moved on, the gate looming closer. The ridicule stung, but it fueled him too. They'd see—tomorrow, when he passed, when his qi silenced their sneers. He reached the entrance, a stone arch framing a courtyard beyond, where tables sat under a canopy of jade silk. Elders in flowing robes presided, their faces stern, while disciples scurried with scrolls and tokens. A line snaked toward one table, hopefuls shuffling forward, some clutching letters, others empty-handed like him.

He joined the queue, the qi in his core a steady pulse, confidence unshaken. Jorin could laugh all he wanted—Roderic knew what he carried now, what the relic had given him. The line moved slowly, the sun climbing higher, sweat beading on his neck. Ahead, a boy with a clan crest was handed a token and waved through, while a girl in patched cloth stammered, then slunk away, head bowed. Roderic watched, unflinching. He wouldn't fail.

The table neared, manned by a disciple—a young woman, her green robe crisp, hair pinned tight, a jade stylus in hand. She barely looked up as he stepped forward, her voice flat. "Name and origin."

"Roderic Vane, Hearth Hollow," he said, standing tall, qi humming faintly as if eager to be seen.

She scribbled it down, then flicked her eyes to his patched tunic, a faint smirk tugging her lips. "No sponsor? No clan?"

"Just me," he said, meeting her gaze. "I'm here for the free test."

Her smirk widened, but she shrugged, dipping the stylus in ink. "Talent test's tomorrow. If your qi's strong enough, you're in—no cost, no catch. If not, don't waste our time." She slid a wooden chit across the table, etched with a rune and his name. "Take this. Be here at dawn. Last day to register, so you're just in time."

Roderic took the chit, fingers brushing the rune, a grin breaking free. "I'll pass," he said, more to himself than her, the weight of it solid in his hand.

She snorted, waving him off. "Next."

He turned away, clutching the chit, the courtyard blurring as he strode back through the gates. Jorin and his ilk lingered near the pillars, their sneers following him—"Low-life Vane, dreaming big!"—but he didn't flinch. Tomorrow, he'd show them. His qi wasn't a prodigy's, not yet, but it was enough—enough to start, enough to climb. The heat flared again, insistent, but he laughed it off, steps light as he headed home. The Verdant Crest was his now, or would be by dawn.