Chapter 11 – Training for the Storm
Before the first blush of dawn, when the world still lay shrouded in midnight's quiet, Yinmo slipped away from the servants' quarters. Every step along the dew-laden forest path pulsed with both apprehension and determination. The scars of past failures—the memory of faltering incantations and the brutal sting of Twigfang's attack—replayed in his mind like an unyielding mantra. Tonight, he had chosen to face these memories head-on in the sacred solitude of the wild forest.
Deep within a clearing rimmed by towering ancient trees and murmuring streams, Yinmo had carved out his private sanctuary. The forest, a living tapestry of gnarled branches draped in midnight moss and illuminated only by the faint glow of early dawn, was as unforgiving as it was timeless. Here, shielded from the prying eyes of the clan, he unfurled his cherished cultivation booklet—the very pages that whispered promises of long-forgotten incantations.
Taking a deep breath, he began his practice. In the quiet of his sanctuary, Yinmo recited the familiar Latin incantation he had labored to master:
"Lignum Excitare,
Vita Redintegro,
Tenebrae Contineo—
Evigilo!"
His voice quavered at first; the words echoed softly among the trees. With every repetition, however, his tone steadied and grew resolute. The incantation was designed to awaken the latent energy of wood within him. Lignum Excitare urged that very force to stir; Vita Redintegro beckoned the restorative pulse of vitality; and though Tenebrae Contineo hinted at an almost forbidden control over shadow, Yinmo knew that for now, his grasp on genuine dark magic remained a dangerous fantasy. Finally, with a decisive exclamation—Evigilo!—he sought to command his inner Qi to surge forth.
For several moments, nothing overtly dramatic occurred aside from a gentle, green luminescence emanating from his palms. Yet it was enough—a quiet confirmation that his wood affinity was stirring in response to his diligent practice. Against the early light, tender vines along the forest floor shifted as if drawn by an unseen force. Still, amidst these promising gestures, Yinmo recognized a painful truth: the very nature of wood magic was inherently gradual—a stark contrast to the razor-sharp speed of wind techniques wielded by his rival, Feng Tao.
Pausing, Yinmo closed his eyes and allowed the forest to envelop him—the rustle of leaves, the murmur of a distant brook, and the soft whispers of time itself. He recalled the chaos of his confrontation with Twigfang—the split-second disruption that forced him to abandon his complete incantation—and felt once again the discrepancy between his deliberate magic and the brutal speed demanded by battle.
In that stillness, doubt crept in. How could a magic that nurtured life ever be forged into a weapon capable of withstanding sudden, ruthless attack? The gentle unfurling of new growth was beautiful yet lacked the explosive force needed to counter an onslaught of wind. As the cool morning light filtered through the canopy, Yinmo's resolve solidified. Quietly, he jotted mental notes alongside each practiced recitation—a vow that he must someday transcend these limitations. Perhaps, in time, he might experiment with blending a subtle trace of forbidden darkness into his incantations. But for now, his sole focus remained on refining his current art.
For hours, Yinmo labored in the clearing. He experimented with variations: quickening his cadence ever so slightly, channeling his Qi to strengthen his defenses. On several attempts, a branch would elongate with a desperate urgency, wrapping momentarily around a nearby rock before releasing its hold—a modest yet crucial success. Every measured effort was a step toward bridging the gulf between the patient nature of his wood magic and the merciless, rapid cadence required in combat.
Yet as he practiced, Yinmo's thoughts continually returned to the looming duel with Feng Tao. Every gust of wind and every taunt from his rival's previous displays echoed in his mind. Feng Tao's techniques were swift, his elements as unpredictable as a summer storm. Rehearsing his incantation once more, Yinmo vowed silently, "I must perfect every nuance. I cannot falter when faced with an opponent whose very essence is the storm."
When at last the first rays of the sun crept over the treetops, Yinmo sank onto the mossy ground, exhaustion mingling with an unyielding determination. The forest seemed to applaud in its own quiet way—a gentle sway of branches, the soft murmur of a waking world, affirming his progress. Even as his technique remained imperfect and the inherent pace of wood magic stayed true to nature's gentle rhythm, today's training marked another vital step on his long journey.
Clutching the cultivation booklet close to his chest, Yinmo pushed himself to stand and turned his eyes toward the horizon. The New Year festival was only days away—a celebration that would soon thrust him into the arena where rivals clashed and destinies were forged. With every measured, patient recitation of his incantation, he silently promised that one day, he would shatter the limits imposed upon him.
Stepping into the cool light of day, Yinmo's gaze burned with unyielding resolve. Tomorrow, amidst the trials of combat and the echoes of rivals, his transformation would take another stride toward the breakthrough he so desperately sought.