Riven stared at the shelf in front of him.
Then read the title again.
Mountain-Crushing Heaven Punch - Mid F-grade
He pulled the scroll out. Opened it.
"A downward punch empowered by a sharp pulse of qi. Most effective when striking from above. May fracture bones if properly executed."
He blinked.
Then turned to the scroll beside it.
Basic Punch - also Mid F-grade.
He opened it.
"A direct, forward punch empowered by a sharp pulse of qi. Most effective when striking the face. May fracture bone at close range."
A beat of silence.
…Seriously?
He put both back.
This was F-rank, apparently — the first step into real martial skills.
Techniques that used qi, not just fists and footwork.
Unlike the basic martial arts non-cultivators practiced — stances, breathing drills, and simple strikes — these were built for cultivators.
And now that Riven had reached the Inner Essence Realm, he could finally learn them.
Circulate qi. Channel it. Weaponize it.
It wasn't much. But it was a start.
F-rank skills were crude, practical. The kind of thing you used when you had just enough qi to light a candle… or throw a punch slightly harder than normal.
Naturally, there were tiers within the rank:
Low F — barely worth the ink it was written in.
Mid F — functional, solid, nothing special.
High F — cleaner execution, sharper results.
Peak F — the best you could learn before stepping into the next realm.
Above that?
E-rank and beyond.
But those weren't even kept on this floor.
You couldn't learn them without the right cultivation anyway — some required rare qi types, unique meridians, or bloodlines that weren't supposed to exist.
All Riven had was the basics.
One arm and barely enough qi to warm a teacup.
A far cry from the nature-shaping monsters his parents had been.
But still — this was a start.
He stepped further down the offensive skill aisle, scanning titles.
Ironwind Crescent Slash. Rising Talon Kick. Leaping Wolf Elbow.
Every scroll practically screamed for attention — like they were trying to outdo each other in drama.
Well most of them did. There were also some simpler named techniques such as "Basic Kick".
But names aside, most of the descriptions boiled down to some combination of:
"Infuse qi. Hit something. Hope it breaks."
He picked up another scroll.
Needle Thorn Jab — Upper F-rank.
A rapid two-finger thrust aimed at the eyes or throat. Uses a sharp pulse of qi to pierce soft targets and disorient. High chance of fatality.
Riven stared at it.
Then read it again.
"...Charming."
It wasn't just an attack. It was an assault.
The kind of technique you only used if you didn't plan on leaving survivors.
Or if you were trying to send a message.
He rolled the scroll between his fingers, expression unreadable.
It was fast. Compact. Brutal — sure.
But he wasn't sure if he was allowed to use this in the upcoming tournament.
Probably not.
Not unless he wanted to develop a reputation even faster than he already was.
He sighed, slid the scroll back into place, and turned away. Time to see what the other aisles had to offer.
First he skimmed through the movement arts.
Blinking Crane Step. Ripple Shift. Seven-Petal Dash.
All footwork styles, meant to improve mobility, dodge more efficiently, or boost short bursts of speed using qi-infused steps.
Useful, sure. A few even looked sleek enough to impress the right crowd.
But Riven already had Extreme Speed, his bloodline ability.
He wasn't going to waste his one chance at a free technique on something that tried to do what he could already do — just worse.
He moved on.
Defensive Techniques were next.
Most of them were body-hardenings: qi-reinforced muscle layers, reactive guard techniques, breath-based impact redirection.
Interesting on paper — a few even had promising names.
But they all had one thing in common: time needed to train.
And that was something he didn't have a lot of.
Not with the Trial looming.
Besides, why bother learning how to take a hit…
When he could just not to get hit in the first place?
Next up were the Special Techniques.
This aisle looked weirder. Felt weirder.
He passed scrolls with names like Empty Palm, Soul Hook, and Qi Mirror.
Descriptions were vague. Complicated. Sometimes completely unhelpful.
There was one that created a drop of acidic qi.
Another that let you detect cats within a fifty-meter radius — for reasons Riven couldn't begin to guess.
Who would even choose this?
Another scroll promised to keep a lantern burning for twice as long, even in wind or rain.
He actually considered that one for a bit. A few seconds saved in the dark could mean a lot.
But after a few more scrolls he gave up on.
Most of these skills here were either extremely niche, plain cursed… or just household hacks.
Later, maybe.
Not now.
Since he could only pick one technique, he wanted something that let him land a clean, solid hit — fast and hard enough to matter.
He turned back.
Offensive Arts it was.
But when he arrived back at the filled aisle with Offensive Skills he realized one thing very quickly: He had to narrow things down.
First he eliminated the peak-rank techniques.
Most of the scrolls he'd seen recommended at least the middle stage of the Inner Essence Realm just to use properly — and Riven had literally broken through yesterday.
He was still barely in the early stage.
If he tried using one of those techniques now, it might work… once.
Maybe.
Probably not.
So he decisively gave up on them — for now.
The low-rank ones got cut next.
Sure, he could learn one fast. Maybe even master it.
But they were barely stronger than a normal punch.
It just wouldn't help him grow much stronger. Not fast enough.
That left the mid and upper F-rank techniques.
Both were solid choices. Manageable requirements, decent power.
But even then — there were still too many options.
So he narrowed things down further.
Weapon skills.
He had one arm.
Half of them he physically couldn't use. The other half?
Maybe. But he didn't like the idea of tying up his only hand holding something.
If it was gripping a blade, it wasn't catching, blocking, or helping him climb out of a pit.
Too limiting.
Plus I'm broke. Can't really afford good weapons.
Which left one major category:
Unarmed techniques.
Punches. Palms. Elbows. Knees. Kicks.
With that, his search sharpened.
And soon a scroll caught his eye:
Falconburst Kick — Upper F-rank.
"A forward kick accelerated by a sudden burst of qi through thigh meridians. Snap the knee like a whip. Fast execution. Moderate energy use. Target lethal areas before they can react."
In his mind, he could already picture it.
Lunging forward, channeling qi through his core and leg, then letting the strike snap through.
It sounded simple. But also fast. Clean. Efficient.
Compared to all the other skills he liked this one the most. The name wasn't embarrassingly flashy and it would be a good attack move for him.
He rolled the scroll closed, tucked it under one arm, and turned toward the front desk.
The elder still sat behind the lacquered table, unmoving. His eyes flicked up only when Riven set the scroll down.
A moment of silence passed.
Then:
"Only one?"
Riven blinked. "I can only get one for free, right?"
The elder raised an eyebrow. "You're a core disciple."
"…And?"
"You're not restricted to just one scroll at this level," the elder said, dryly.
Riven stared at him for a beat.
Couldn't you have told me that earlier?
The elder tapped two fingers once, firmly, against the desk. "Don't get too greedy though. I'd recommend no more than two. If you try to learn too many at once, you'll learn nothing."
Riven nodded slowly.
"Right."
He picked up the scroll again.
And then immediately turned back towards the shelves.
Ten minutes later, he left the Martial Arts Hall with two scrolls tucked under his arm.
Fifteen seconds after the doors shut behind him, a second figure stepped out.
Riven hadn't noticed him once.
But he'd been there the whole time.
Watching.
His robes weren't sect-standard. Not even black. Just plain, weather-worn gray — the kind of color that vanished into stone and shadow. His face was half-covered, but his eyes were sharp and still.
Cold.
Like someone who didn't blink unless they had to.
He pulled a small slip of paper from his sleeve. Wrote down two lines in tight, slanted ink.
Folded it and tucked it away.
Then turned — and vanished into the shadows, following the path Riven had taken.
Silent as mist.