Another ragged breath exhaled, condensing into mist under Zhao’s gaze. He’d lost track of the count long ago but pressed forward.

Next to him on the right, Tai Yang was enjoying himself with a smile as per usual.

Gu Hong bounced on the older disciple’s back, keeping track of his repetitions.

To Zhao’s left, Che Fang completed another push up earnestly, his visage set in stony concentration.

Ahead of them lay the open azure sky looking down on their sect, free of clouds to hinder their view. It was probably one of the last days of good weather.

Blinking through the sheen of sweat that gleamed in the sunlight battering down on them, Zhao caught sight of odd clusters of disciples pausing to glance up at the Inner Disciples’ training plateau.

Occasionally one would point in their general direction.

The next time it happened, Zhao called a break in their routine.

For cultivators with enhanced bodies, exercise was less a prerequisite for physical health and performance than an optional activity for the most driven. The fringe benefits were still worth it in his opinion.

Gu Hong pulled out a gourd bottle from the group’s bag, thrown haphazardly on the ground. Reaching for a stack of bamboo cups, he hurriedly poured water for each of them.

As the boy worked, Zhao fished out the various scrolls they had collected. After reading through his notes on each he deposited a couple back into the improvised knapsack.

“Sorry Gu Hong,” he said while receiving his drink, “but Into the Mist won’t work today for obvious reasons.”

With a pout the boy took a swig directly from the canteen.

“But it's so awesome!” Gu Hong protested.

Quoting the text he said, “In the mist, nothing is as it seems. An opponent cannot strike what they cannot see, while one’s hand is left free to strike when the time is right.”

With a guffaw, Tai Yang spoke up. “Pompous arts like that usually end poorly when tested against raw power.”

Brandishing his muscles he continued, “Let your daddy teach you a real man’s art and you’ll forget about that one in no time!”

“How about-” Che Fang cut in, “-we start with the easiest ones and go from there.”

Acknowledging the point, Zhao decided to begin with the pairing of arts Che Fang had found. Both were spirit arts that focused on breathing and the lungs; aptly named the Rotating Breath and Misty Breath.

The former used Wind Style to compress Qi into a directed rotation around their lungs, enabling a cultivator to enhance the amount of air they could hold and empower with Qi.

In a similar way, by utilizing Water Style a cultivator could stir up Qi in their lungs to create a billowing mist out of their breath.

In theory, when the two were used in conjunction the effect of Misty Breath would be heightened to produce a fantastic amount of mist.

By itself the resultant vapor would just be a curiosity, but if exercised as a supporting technique for further Water Style spirit arts it could prove impactful.

Since none of the assembled disciples had any proficiency in either spirit art, the only communication they shared was muttered nothings as the scrolls were passed between them.

Centering himself, Zhao entered a meditative state briefly. Once he felt refreshed his Qi began replicating the pattern outlined by the Rotating Breath.

When held in the body, Qi tended to modulate itself to suit the human constitution if unimpeded.

This was the case for Zhao as it was for most Qi Condensation cultivators.

Without sufficient appropriate ambient Qi to draw from, the first step was to attune his internal Qi to the element of wind.

Since he possessed a passable affinity to the element, the matter was simple. A stream of Qi circulated diligently before shifting with a whirl that passed down its length, slowly training it to favor wind.

The mechanism repeated, gradually building up a store of Qi properly attuned for the spirit art.

Grabbing hold of the changed Qi, Zhao directed each errant strand from around his body towards his lungs. Then came the challenge of weaving together the spirit art’s pattern without damaging a vital organ.

A three dimensional model of pure energy, the construct could be perhaps likened to a mortal’s efforts at knitting.

For arts developed to be practiced by Qi Condensation cultivators simple repetitive patterns were the norm. Zhao linked the Qi to itself with little difficulty.

Primed for use, the Qi urged him to try the art.

Obliging it, Zhao’s Qi swirled around his lungs haltingly before picking up speed. Each breath felt stronger than the last, the rise and fall of his chest soon capturing his attention enough that the spirit art destabilized with a puff.

Coughing, Zhao let a grin escape him.

It dropped off his face when he noticed both Che Fang and Gu Hong engaging the Rotating Breath so naturally that he could barely tell that effort was being extended. At his hacking the latter actually opened his eyes worriedly, the skinny man’s hold on his Qi undisturbed.

His only consolation was that Tai Yang was laying on his back forcefully pressing down on his own lungs in an aberrant display.

Walking over to him, Zhao asked, “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“There’s something wrong with the art, so I’m beating it into submission.” Tai Yang punctuated his explanation with a thump of his chest.

Backing away, Zhao felt a shiver travel down his spine at the behavior of battle obsessed fiends. He was sure the nonsensical method would bear fruit in defiance of common sense.

Next Zhao tried the Misty Breath, which came much easier to him. Having a higher affinity for the element of water than wind, his Qi flowed into the correct attunement easily before settling into the blueprint he crafted.

Unlike its counterpart, the Misty Breath held no moving parts, making it much easier to control.

Qi was inserted into the framework and proceeded to fill his lungs submissively. Upon exhaling, a trail of mist burst forth before dissipating.

Considering he struggled with the pair of basic arts, Zhao left practicing the more complex Cloud Burst and Frozen Grasp to the geniuses under his employ.

Taking a peek at Tai Yang revealed he was still hammering away at his chest, and would therefore be unable to tutor him in any of the more popular spirit arts.

That left Myriad Voices, Daydreamer’s Bliss, or Phases of the Moon.

Zhao hesitated, but couldn’t resist taking a look at the forbidden spirit art he’d obtained. Unrolling the scroll, he reviewed his notes cautiously.

His assumption was that Myriad Voices was dangerous because it demanded Qi be formed into a network in the brain.

A Qi deviation in the lungs would hurt, but could usually be overcome with healing and time. Should one occur in the brain, Zhao wasn’t sure it would be so easily resolved.

Though far from an expert in spirit arts, he couldn’t identify any flaws in the theory of Myriad Voices.

It claimed the physical and spirit worlds intersected regularly but that these occurrences existed outside the natural perception of the human mind. By augmenting a cultivator’s ability to process information with Qi, they would become able to find and interpret points where the two planes met.

Doing so would lead to the discovery of so-called spirit fragments.

Further details were murky, but as a cultivator integrated the fragments into their cultivation base they would supposedly gain unique abilities.

Any error in practicing the spirit art would clearly lead to disastrous consequences.

It was illogical for Zhao to engage with the art in any way. Mastering it was a feat best left to one of those in his employ, who would surely breeze through its instructions and dodge the associated dangers.

But as he sat there watching the man who had once reached Foundation Establishment by the age of twenty and the boy who reinvented cultivation, Zhao felt jealousy bubble up.

Mist swirled around Che Fang in a demonstration of successfully integrating the two techniques he had found. His eyes cracked, and a pop resounded as a section of the cloud exploded with a flick of a finger.

Gu Hong marveled at his hand as frost crept down it, the mist around him condensing into water before freezing.

Even Tai Yang’s bizarre display yielded results, as he breathed fog forth while drumming his chest.

Diverting his eyes, Zhao’s finger began tapping on his thigh.

In truth his plan had not yielded tangible results, and no matter how much he drilled patience into his head the feeling of helplessness would not subside.

His companions’ abilities would not help him defeat Li Tingfey.

Rubbing his temples, obsession crept into Zhao’s eyes.

Living with death over his head had already coerced him into taking risks.

Neutral Qi rushed to meet Zhao’s command, forming the skeleton of Myriad Voices behind his eyes.

It branched out to touch the seven orifices in a convoluted trail. When the roots burrowed into the sensory organs his stomach turned, but seeing no damage Zhao continued.

Within a handful of minutes he had completed the outline. Nothing concerning happened, so Zhao forced Qi through the pattern.

Reacting stiffly it accepted his orders, drilling into his brain.

There was no immediate reaction. Calming himself, Zhao chuckled at his recklessness.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up abruptly.

A delicate hand caressed his cheek. Hot breath invaded his ear with a murmur.

“Run.”

Zhao rose to his feet, launching himself to the edge of the training plateau. His vision swam at the drop as he stood one foot halfway over the drop.

A more calloused hand grabbed Zhao’s shoulder and wretched him back. “Master Zhao Mi?” asked Che Fang, watching him closely.

Behind his servant, Tai Yang engaged Gu Hong in a match that mostly consisted of the youth operating the Frozen Grasp while dodging blows.

“I don’t know what came over me.” Zhao said with knit eyebrows.

The memory of the voice was fading, but as he thought back to it the compulsion returned; an urge to get as far away from the sect as he could.

As if he needed more motivation to leave the sect after a covert visit from an Elder.

“Listen,” Zhao said after a moment, “you three keep training.” Pocketing the Myriad Voices art, he indicated the External Affairs Pagoda in the valley below with his chin. “I’m going to go pick up that merchant’s request.”

With a slight bow, Che Fang returned to his efforts. Though he did well in hiding them, Zhao noticed the furtive glances the sharp disciple sent his way as he descended.

Reaching into his robes, Zhao gripped the spirit art hidden within tightly.

Judging from his experience, he may have overstepped in practicing it. Hearing disembodied voices and feeling immaterial beings always heralded horrible consequences for those involved.

Disconcerted, Zhao couldn’t make it to his destination without a break for cultivation.

The Qi soothed his nerves as he basked in it amidst the artistically planted flowers alongside one of the sect’s main paths.

It felt as if he could release the cursed spirit art back into its tomb and forget ever entertaining the idea of practicing it.

Then his passive divine sense caught the Qi signature of one of the damned spies that camped in front of his cultivation cave.

A torrent of paranoia raced through Zhao like adrenaline.

His eyes snapped to the figure clad in Inner Disciple's robes. He noted the crest of the Li clan emblazoned into the fabric as the Foundation Establishment cultivator walked by casually about his day.

Zhao’s cultivation base surged to life, preparing for a life or death battle, only to be ignored by the interloper.

When the man passed by it became clear his Qi signature was different from Zhao’s initial assessment. There were certainly similarities, but not to the degree that he needed to be alarmed.

His reaction was odd. Unnaturally so.

With a sinking feeling Zhao turned his senses inward.

There, in his head, threads of Qi wriggled in a shadowy approximation of the Myriad Voices art unbidden.

Acknowledging the Qi was met with a sense of profound dread.

Zhao would not have recognized the subtle correlation between the random disciple’s Qi signature and that of the original sentinel assigned to monitor his residence. He didn’t know where the knowledge had come from.

The Qi squirmed fanatically.

He could feel it in his head, rejoicing at its accomplishment.

It celebrated having planted a thought into Zhao’s consciousness, savoring its triumph.