Dual Cultivation Path

The courtyard of the Verdant Crest Academy buzzed with a restless energy, the morning sun now fully risen, casting a warm glow over the stone slabs that formed the testing ground. Roderic Vane stood among the hopefuls, his tall, lean frame steady, his patched tunic a stark contrast to the silks and crests around him. His core thrummed with qi, a steady flame he'd nurtured since the relic's shards sank into him, and his hazel eyes gleamed with unshaken confidence. Beside him, Barnaby Quill shifted on his feet, his sandy blond hair tousled, pale blue eyes flickering with a mix of nerves and hope. Beyond the ropes, Tansy lingered near a pillar, her freckled hands twisting her shawl, her green eyes darting between Roderic and the crowd.

The testing area was a wide circle, its edges packed with onlookers—academy disciples in crisp green robes, village folk craning for a glimpse, and anxious families clutching their pride. Every year, the talent test drew a throng, hungry to witness the rare few whose qi shone beyond the ordinary, prodigies who'd rise to fame or infamy. The air crackled with that anticipation, a hum of whispers and held breaths as the hopefuls awaited their turn.

At the circle's center stood four elders, their flowing robes shimmering with faint runes, their faces carved with the sternness of authority. Before them sat four Stones of Measure—smooth, fist-sized orbs of polished jade, each resting on a low pedestal. Their surfaces bore etched runes that pulsed faintly, a subtle glow that hinted at their purpose. These stones, Roderic knew from market tales, were the academy's gatekeepers. Channel your qi into them, and they'd reveal your worth: red for weak, blue for average, gold for strong, and—on rare, whispered occasions—white for the extraordinary. Fall below blue, and you were out, dreams dashed on the spot.

The lead elder—a wiry man with a beard like steel wool—stepped forward, raising a hand. His voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. "In groups of four, you will approach the stones. Channel your qi—depth, purity, potential. The measure is final. No appeals, no retries. Begin!"

The crowd hushed, and the hopefuls shuffled into a rough queue, nerves tightening the air. Roderic watched, Barnaby at his elbow, as the first four stepped up—a mix of clan heirs in silk and locals in threadbare cloth, their faces pale with tension. They pressed their palms to the stones, and the orbs flickered to life. Two glowed red, dim and stuttering like dying embers, one shone a steady blue, modest but passable, and the fourth flared gold, bright and bold, drawing a ripple of gasps from the onlookers. The elder waved a hand. "Red fails. Blue and gold advance."

The two with red stones slumped, one—a boy with a clan crest—muttering curses as he stormed off, the other—a girl in rags—blinking back tears as she slipped into the crowd. Tansy winced, her heart twisting for them, but her eyes stayed on Roderic, who stood unfazed, his grin faint but firm. "Rough start," Barnaby murmured, hands in his pockets.

"They'll get over it," Roderic said, voice low, his qi a steady hum in his chest. "Ours'll be better."

The tests rolled on, groups of four cycling through, the stones painting a mosaic of fates. Most glowed blue—solid, unremarkable, enough to pass—while a handful flared gold, earning nods from the elders and murmurs from the crowd. Red appeared too often, each dim glow a quiet tragedy: a broad-shouldered boy kicking the dirt as he left, a girl with braided hair staring at her hands in disbelief, her mother pulling her away with a hushed sob. Jorin Tal and his cronies lingered near the ropes, their sneers loud—"Look at the failures! Quarry rat's next!"—but Roderic ignored them, his focus on the stones.

Then came Theobald Finch, and the courtyard stilled. At twenty, he was older than most hopefuls, a lanky figure with a hawkish face—sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, and dark eyes that glinted with a quiet intensity. His hair was jet-black, cropped close, and he wore a simple gray tunic, no clan markings, just a leather bracer on one wrist. Whispers rippled as he stepped forward with three others, his stride deliberate, head high. Roderic tilted his head, curious despite himself—something about Theobald felt different, like a storm coiled tight.

Theobald pressed his palm to the stone, and the reaction was instant. The jade orb pulsed, then erupted in a blinding white light, so fierce it cast shadows across the courtyard, the runes blazing like miniature suns. A collective gasp rose, followed by a roar of chatter—onlookers craning, disciples leaning forward, even the elders blinking in surprise. The light held, steady and pure, a beacon that drowned out the other stones' modest blues and golds. Theobald stepped back, exhaling, a faint smirk tugging his lips as the glow faded to a lingering shimmer.

"White!" a villager shouted, voice breaking with awe. "Extraordinary qi!"

"Never seen it that bright," Barnaby muttered, eyes wide. "Who is he?"

"No idea," Roderic said, grinning now, the spectacle fueling his own fire. "But he's in."

The elders conferred, heads bent, then the lead one nodded. "Theobald Finch—exceptional. Advance." The crowd erupted—cheers, murmurs, a few jealous grumbles—as Theobald walked off, his dark eyes scanning the onlookers with a flicker of pride. Tansy, near her pillar, gaped, her nerves for Roderic tightening. If that was the bar, could he match it? She shook her head—he didn't need white, just enough, and he'd promised her he had it.

The tests resumed, more reds and blues, a scattering of golds, the failures trudging away with slumped shoulders or tight-lipped fury. Then came Aurelia Vance, and the courtyard hushed again. At eighteen, she was a vision of quiet fire—slender but strong, with a cascade of auburn hair that fell in loose waves past her shoulders, framing a face both sharp and soft. Her eyes were a striking amber, glowing with a fierce resolve, and her skin bore a faint tan, kissed by sun rather than toil. She wore a simple brown dress, belted at the waist, no adornments save a silver ring on her left hand—a contrast to the silked-up clan girls, yet she carried herself with a grace that turned heads.

She stepped up with her group, her movements fluid, and placed her hand on the stone. The orb flickered, then blazed—not white, but a gold so rich and deep it verged on molten, tendrils of light curling upward like flames. The glow pulsed, rhythmic and powerful, washing the pedestal in a radiant heat that made the air shimmer. The crowd leaned in, breaths held, as the stone's runes flared, reflecting in her amber eyes. Whispers broke out—"Look at that gold!" "She's a phoenix!"—and even Jorin's sneer faltered, his cronies gawking openly.

Aurelia held the pose a moment longer, her expression calm but her lips twitching with a suppressed smile, then stepped back as the light dimmed to a warm afterglow. The elder's voice cut through the din. "Aurelia Vance—remarkable. Advance." Cheers followed, louder than Theobald's, a mix of awe and envy rippling through the onlookers. Tansy clapped a hand to her mouth, stunned, her excitement for Roderic warring with a fresh wave of nerves. "She's incredible," she whispered, glancing at her brother, who watched with a grin, unfazed.

"Two in one day," Barnaby said, shaking his head, his lopsided grin returning. "Never thought I'd see it."

"Means it's our turn to shine," Roderic replied, clapping his shoulder, qi surging with anticipation. Theobald and Aurelia had set a high mark, but he didn't need white or molten gold—just enough to pass, to claim his spot. The failures around him—more reds now, a boy collapsing to his knees, a girl storming off with a choked curse—only sharpened his resolve. He wouldn't be them.

The line dwindled, the stones glowing and fading, the crowd's energy shifting from thrill to fatigue as the morning wore on. A boy with a clan crest glowed red, his face crumpling as his father dragged him away, muttering about disgrace. A girl in homespun sparked blue, her relieved sob cutting the air as she advanced. Jorin's taunts grew louder—"Quarry rat's next to flop!"—but Roderic tuned him out, his focus on the stones, on Barnaby beside him.

Finally, their group was called—four of them, Roderic and Barnaby among two others: a twitchy boy with a stutter and a girl with a tight braid, both in patched cloth like them. The elder pointed. "You, to the stones." Roderic stepped forward, but Barnaby was first in line, his sandy hair catching the sun as he approached the leftmost orb.