31. Using a Nascent Soul’s Legacy to Store Pork

The seasons turn, winter tightening its grip on the mountain, but within Coiling Dragon Sect, warmth and growth flourish.

It’s colder now, I can see my breath freezing in the morning air, frost painting the training yard in shades of white. The disciples huddle in their new cloaks, stamping their feet between exercises. But no one complains. No one shivers in threadbare robes anymore. No one dreads the coming months.

We’re ready.

I gather the disciples on the first day of the new month, their breath misting in the cold morning air.

“From now on, morning practice includes mandatory sparring. Light contact, technique focus. You’ll learn more from failing against each other than from perfect forms alone.”

They exchange nervous glances. Sparring means pain. Embarrassment. Exposure of weaknesses. But it also means growth.

Mei Lin steps forward first, challenging Wei Chen. He lasts thirty seconds before she pins him, her water techniques flowing around his fire. The others laugh, but he gets up grinning.

“Again,” I say.

Wei Chen doesn’t hesitate this time. He charges first, fire qi flaring along his arms, heat warping the air around his fists. He swings wide. Mei Lin pivots, water sliding across her limbs like a second skin. She redirects. His punch glances off her guard, dragged just off-center. She steps inside his range, palm striking his ribs, light contact but clean.

“Point.”

I watch in silence, arms folded. In Greenstone City, neither of them would have made it past the first round. Not because they’re weak. They’re not. For a backwater sect, they’re solid. Their qi circulation is stable. Their forms are clean enough. Their endurance is improving.

But they lack everything else.

Wei Chen fights like someone who believes effort can substitute for thinking. He swings and hopes. In a real match, against someone his level, that first wild strike gets slipped and the counter comes straight to the throat. Mei Lin is better. Smarter. She conserves energy, reads movement, waits for openings.

In the tournament, I saw fighters who would create openings. Force them. Bait reactions. If Mei Lin waited like this, a city disciple would pressure her relentlessly, break her guard inch by inch, then punish her hesitation the moment she chose not to act. She would lose without ever understanding why.

“Winner gets extra portions at meals,” I announce. “And first pick of training supplies next month.”

The shift in attitude is immediate. Suddenly everyone wants to spar.

By week’s end, sparring is the most anticipated part of practice. The disciples push each other, learn from each other, grow together. Wei Chen lasts a full minute against Mei Lin now. Jun, the cynical one, discovers he’s actually good at reading opponents. Even the youngest disciples find their rhythm.

Ling’er doesn’t dominate, that would raise suspicion. But she wins more than she loses, and when she loses, it’s close. Her “natural talent” becomes accepted fact among the disciples. The kitchen girl who watches too much and somehow knows things.

I watch her spar with Wei Chen, her movements controlled, her power restrained. She’s holding back so much it must ache. In the tournament, I saw her identify lethal vulnerabilities in every fighter. Jugulars. Hearts. The spaces between ribs.

I feared she’d instinctively target those weaknesses here.

But she doesn’t. She’s controlled. Friendly. Respectful. She pulls her strikes, limits her speed, plays the role of “talented beginner” perfectly.

Still, I can tell it’s harder for her to look like she’s struggling. The gap between her real ability and her public performance grows wider every day. She could take all eleven disciples at once and come out unscathed.

That thought is both reassuring and terrifying.

“You’re really good at this,” Mei Lin says after a close spar. “For someone who started so late.”

Ling’er shrugs modestly. “I watch a lot. And the body refinement training helps.”

Ah, yes. Body refinement.

I announce it casually at the next practice: “Ling’er has shown exceptional results in body refinement. She’ll lead those sessions from now on. Anyone who wants to improve their physical conditioning, follow her lead.”

They follow. And they suffer.

Ling’er doesn’t go easy on them. She leads them through the same exercises I gave her, boulder carries up the slope, hill sprints until their legs burn, endurance drills that seem designed by a sadist. She demonstrates each exercise perfectly, then watches as they attempt to keep up.

They collapse. All of them. Gasping on the cold ground, limbs trembling, while Ling’er stands fresh and encouraging.

“How does she do that?” Wei Chen wheezes, flat on his back, staring at the sky.

“Genetics,” I say, which is technically true.

Wei Chen props himself up on one elbow. “Genetics? What’s that mean?”

I freeze for just a moment. Right. This world doesn’t have that term.

“It means… bloodline.” I recover smoothly. “Perhaps her parents were laborers. Strong backs passed down.”

He accepts this, collapsing back to the ground with a groan. The others aren’t in any condition to question further. Ling’er catches my eye and hides a smile.

By week two, the disciples are noticeably stronger. Their sparring improves, faster strikes, better endurance, more controlled techniques. Their qi circulation improves; more efficient cultivation during meditation. Even their morale improves.

They grumble together. They collapse together. They compare sore muscles and compete over who endured more. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, they start keeping up. Not matching Ling’er, but improving. Each session, they last a little longer. Carry a little more. Run a little faster.

They push harder than they normally would, driven by something primal: the refusal to be completely outclassed by a twelve-year-old girl. Ling’er, for her part, plays the role perfectly. She’s encouraging without being condescending. Demanding without being cruel. She learns their names, their limits, their small victories. By the end of week two, they don’t resent her for being better, they’re grateful she’s pushing them. Every night, she cycles the Five Phases method in my quarters. Every day, she takes her pills between meals. The combination is devastating.

I keep telling her to build a foundation before breaking through. To ensure her base is solid before reaching for the next realm. She nods seriously, agrees completely, and then accelerates so quickly that “slow” becomes a relative term.

At this rate, she’ll reach Foundation Establishment before spring. That’s not slow by any standard. That’s not even fast. That’s something else entirely.

Ling’er – Week 2 Assessment

Cultivation: Qi Condensation 4th → 5th Stage

Time for her to get some legitimate combat experience.

I find a job posted at Greenstone Town; a worn parchment nailed to the board outside the cultivator’s guild hall.

Ironhide Boars plaguing farming village to the east. Reward: 50 low-grade stones, plus materials. Threat level: Moderate (Qi Condensation 5th-7th equivalent).

Perfect for Ling’er’s first real combat. Dangerous enough to test her, not dangerous enough to actually threaten her. With me watching, at least.

We travel to the village, presenting ourselves as wandering cultivators passing through. I don’t want the sect associated with this—no connections, no questions, no trail leading back to Coiling Dragon Mountain. Just two strangers who happen to be good at killing things.

The villagers are grateful, desperate, and provide clear directions to the boars’ lair.

We track them to a rocky hillside an hour from the village. A cave entrance gapes in the stone, surrounded by churned earth and broken trees. The sounds of grunting and rooting echo from within.

Stolen story; please report.

“Master.” Ling’er’s voice is soft, focused. “There are five of them. The largest is… Qi Condensation 7th equivalent? Maybe 8th. The others are 4th to 6th.”

“Correct.” I position myself at the cave entrance, hand on my sword. “Your targets are the smaller ones. I’ll handle the big one if it gets dangerous. But I want you to fight. Really fight. Use everything you’ve learned.”

She nods. Gold flickers in her eyes.

I watch her move into the cave, my hand tight on my sword hilt. Even though I know—having felt it myself—that those boars are far weaker than she is despite matching her cultivation rank. Even though I’ve seen her spar with me, a Foundation Establishment cultivator, and hold her own, I can’t help but be on guard. Is this what having a daughter is like? This constant, irrational need to protect someone who doesn’t need protecting? This urge to step in even when she’s clearly handling herself?

I’m too young for this. Then I remember; this body is over forty years old. I have a forty-year-old’s life experience and a twenty-year-old’s emotional maturity and apparently a father’s instinct I never asked for.

I almost tear up. I blame the cold.

A loud grunt alerts us. They know we’re here.

“GRRR!”

Ling’er moves like nothing I’ve seen. She flows between techniques seamlessly, water saw to wound the first boar’s flank, flame spikes to herd the second away from the third, earth steps to evade a charge that would have crushed a normal cultivator her rank. The boars are strong, fast, their hides thick as armor. But they can’t touch her.

She’s always exactly where they aren’t. Always striking exactly where they’re weak. Eyes. Throats. The soft tissue behind their front legs.

Three boars die in under a minute. Clean and efficient kills. The kind of kills that speak to deep understanding of anatomy and combat.

Then the big one charges.

It’s massive—twice the size of the others, with tusks like spears and hide that seems to shrug off the techniques that felled its pack. Qi Condensation 7th equivalent, maybe 8th. Far stronger than anything she’s faced.

“Ling’er, step back—”

I raise my sword, ready to intervene, ready to freeze it solid—

She doesn’t step back.