Ren had never before thought about painting for cultivation, or in any other capacity for that matter, let alone with a brush of excellent quality such as the one he was carefully examining now, rolling it around between his index finger and thumb to get a closer look.

It was cool to the touch, black-red patterns curving their way across its wooden length, with a section resembling a heart standing out most to Ren. The brush's hairs were fine, having a texture as if they were constantly drenched in ink, leaving an oily feel on his hand.

What unsettled him, though, was that Ren could feel the artfully crafted painting utensil hunger for his spirit, begging him for it. Poking the back of his head, like the uncomfortable feeling of knowing that you have forgotten something yet being unable to remember, it irked him.

Before he could further contemplate this, though, a sharp clap rang out behind him and drew his attention away from the brush. He gently put it down on the wooden easel, his was a soft beige colour, before turning around.

"As you are situated before your temporary workspaces, please start painting to your heart's content." Master Clearheart's voice rang out, but while some simply started painting away, some were quite confused on their task.

"But Master, we have no idea how to paint, wouldn't our results be simply abysmal, with nothing to gain from them?" A doubtful girl spoke up from the back, mirroring many disciples' thoughts. Ren could easily identify her as Sister Gao.

Master Clearheart was undeterred, though, and answered with a mischievous smile. "Simply think about home and inject your spirit into the brush before you, it will do the work. You can even close your eyes if it makes you find your confidence."

Seeing some disciples still being unsure, she continued. "Go on now, don't be shy." She encouraged them, and though Ren had his doubts about the ominous looking paint brush that tried to draw his spirit in, he grabbed it with decisiveness, dipped it in black ink, closed his eyes, and immersed himself.

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Initially, for Shen Junan, the idea of a gathering of prodigies felt like a farce. When the decision of the gathering was delivered to him, it sparked naught but the thought that it would merely be a means to an end, to please his teacher, Grandmaster Cloudgrass, and further his own influence within the sect, maybe suppress the old families who were becoming bolder by the day.

He was never so wrong, yet glad he was all the same.

Shen Junan, in his almost ten years of life, had never experienced anything like this journey. Of course there were interactions with people other than his Master, but scarcely with someone in his age range, and if they were then their meeting was surely less than cordial.

Even if he hadn't met a genius on his level, he obviously knew that the world held as many people as there are stars in the sky and thus there must be others who could match, or even surpass him in talent.

Elder Cloudgrass had told him that he was the most talented disciple he had ever seen, but there was talk of a boy named Zhi Mu, son of two Masters, an unmatchable talent.

And what outrageous rumours they were. An Adept. The other boy was an Adept, they said, only a little older than himself, and yet he could fight against a Master. The notion was nothing but ridiculous to him.

And as he thought they were baseless rumours, he hadn't met the said boy yet after all, he went about his days as usual. He trained his body the mortal way, tried to gain more insight into the workings of different cultivation arts, he trained some more, and he tried to find his own Intent, to finally step into the realm of Adepts.

But when he laid eyes on him, sensed his spirit and the obvious power and control behind it, there was not a doubt remaining in his mind.

This was not a genius, this was a monster in human skin.

And for the first time in his life he felt excitement, a euphoric sense of inferiority that permeated his being and let him appreciate the narrowness of his former perspective.

He thought that the paradoxical rush of emotion would wear off after the first night they spent together, but it only kept climbing ever higher the longer he observed the other prodigies. Xin Jing was an almost celebrity among the heart division, and he always felt that she might be the only disciple to challenge his former self-given title of having the most potential.

Seeing her flow through the little training course at ludicrous speeds, for a Novice, without even being serious, made his glee rise ever higher.

'She must also be close to becoming an Adept.' Were his thoughts.

Han Ting was exactly like he pictured him. Having met his sister before, he could guess that the muscular boy, who had a similar condition to his own, was sheltered beyond belief, and it showed.

Their youngest member, and the one that made even Zhi Mu feel astonishment, was a true enigma to Shen Junan.

There was very little he knew about him, other than what was exchanged between them. His prowess was impressive, and the fact that he had an Intent already, after cultivating for not even half a year, sent shivers down his spine.

His teacher, after Shen Junan asked him about Intent and why only those who were on the cusp of becoming Adepts could perceive it, told him it was generally agreed upon that to gain an Intent the practitioner had to first be able to sense the surrounding spirit with the same ease that he opened his eyes with. This was the easy part, and Shen Junan, due to his condition, had already mastered the sensing part and pushed it to rival some Master's sensing even, and he was eager to attain an Intent immediately. What Cloudgrass had told him next dampened his excitement immensely, though.

One had to parse through the different flavours of spirit as well as the concepts in this world, and find the one that resonated with oneself. As soon as the practitioner gained this sense of belonging, of want, and wholeness, the Intent would be realized. Paradoxically, the more spirit was housed, the harder this process would be as it became harder to find a resonance. It was obviously also harder if the practitioner only resonated with some obscure concept.

To make a long story short, Shen Junan was envious when it came to Ren's Intent, even if his early attainment would limit the scope of his arts and make him unable to make use of many of the convenient techniques that Cultivators employed, it would also raise him up in different ways.

Should the younger boy be able to utilize what is given to him, he might even become another Zhi Mu.

Shen Junan hid an excited grin, and began painting, two yellow circles swiftly taking shape.

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Xin Jing still vividly remembered the first time she interacted with another disciple. She was merely a fresh Initiate back then and the other girl already a well respected Novice, almost fourteen summers old.

Xin Jing thought their meeting would be innocent enough, her grandmother would introduce her to different members of the division. It was going to be fun.

But after initial greetings and pleasantries, it became immediately obvious that it was not truly a social gathering, at least not fully.

They were to take fighting positions opposite each other, she, a six-year-old Initiate, and her opponent, a thirteen-year-old Novice.

She was nervous, fearing how the older girl would dismantle her shoddy forms and unrefined arts, and her adversary thought much of the same, looking at her with pity but unable to deny an elder's request.

The fight itself was quick and brutal. Step into her guard, disrupt the flow of spirit with a quick jab to the chest, break the offending arm that tried to grab at her head.

Xin Jing felt overwhelmingly confident for a moment, but as she looked down at the broken and crying figure of the older girl, desperately clutching her arm, fear and confusion colouring her eyes, nothing but a feeling of disappointment remained.

'How could she be so weak? Why would she cry? We have to remain logical to understand our heart and arts. Rise from weakness through detachment. Does she not know this?'

Those were her thoughts, looking down, cold mask in place.

The praise of her grandmother was always short and concise. A little nod of acknowledgment, and a thorough recounting of what she has to improve upon. She always accepted it without comment. After all, it was for her own good, or so her grandmother claimed.

These occurrences repeated themselves multiple times, always the same pattern, and the same outcome.

After a while they started calling her young Mistress, singing her praises and claiming she was the division's pride, but she knew what they really called her, behind closed doors, when they thought she wasn't listening. The doll, nothing but a tool for the elders to command.

In the gathering of prodigies she saw an opening, an opportunity, to break her bindings, expand her heart, and truly learn what people mean when they fondly talk about their home, or family.

She painted a room with an unadorned sword, sticking in the ground, a wooden puppet, holding itself by its strings, a rough boulder, and a golden mirror trying to capture their reflection.

All of them circled a tiny doll.