Phantom Spear

"What the hell is this?!" A loud shout echoed through the forest, accompanied by a sharp slapping sound resembling wood against skin.

Zooming through the woods, engaged in a cat-and-mouse chase, were two figures: a black-haired young boy – the mouse, and a lengthy, grey-haired, wrinkled old beggar – the cat.

"How am I supposed to learn anything like this?! You're just giving me a beating!" Zhihui shouted, suddenly ducking to avoid the sweep of a long, wooden staff. However, the staff morphed into a grey mist, reappearing from below and striking his jaw.

"Hmph, ignorant disciple who doesn't realize his fortune. Beating? This method of training is an ancient technique called 'teaching the body.' Many times in the past, words alone weren't enough.

To truly instill martial arts, one must feel it, experience it, embrace it! If the mind doesn't listen, then teach it to the body!" The raggedly dressed elder's words floated in the air as he swung the wooden staff in hand, streaking through the air toward the ocean-eyed young boy.

When Zhihui noticed the snake-like wooden staff turning into an after-image, he gritted his teeth. 'It's coming from the left! He's aiming for my ribs!' he thought and guarded his left, where the wooden staff materialized before suddenly vanishing.

"Damn it!" The impact on his right lifted him skyward, suspending his bent body mid-air before another bash slammed him back to earth.

"Get up," the old man commanded, pointing the wooden staff at Zhihui. "Are you done already?"

Thoughts bounced around Zhihui's mind. It had been months since he had broken through to the 7th stage of Qi Condensation, and he had now turned 7. The harsh training had solved his problem of pain when cultivating.

However, instead of meditating and focusing on increasing his cultivation like he thought he'd be doing, the old man used all his time to teach him his martial arts—an art he called the 'Phantom Spear.' It was a combination of foot technique and an offensive technique that could be used both unhandedly and with a spear.

Eager to get stronger and set out into the world, Zhihui was excited to learn this martial art—until he actually began practicing it. The art was not just vexing due to its incredible speed; it possessed an insidious quality.

The weapon, at one moment, would be aimed in a particular direction, only to suddenly vanish into a mist of smoke. It would then appear from a different, imperceptible side, with movements seeming to disobey the law of inertia.

Such craftiness went beyond mere feints, smokes, and mirrors; there was more to this martial art, but he couldn't seem to grasp it.

Zhihui breathed a heavy sigh and rose to his feet. Seeing this, the old man skillfully spun the staff above his head. At first glance, it seemed like a frail branch, almost as if a simple pinch could snap it in half. 

But Zhihui was keenly aware of the truth, and the pain assaulting his body attested that it was no ordinary wood.

As the staff twirled, the wind howled. The surrounding air became difficult to breathe in and moved erratically, becoming crazier with each second the staff spun, giving birth to a mini-tornado.

Air scattered his lengthy black hair, and Zhihui's eyes grew wide, determination flashing through them. "Done? Old man, I haven't even started," his tone brimming with confidence and a smirk on his face.

He chuckled and closed his eyes.

This time he would grasp it; that much he swore in his mind.

No, this time...he had to.

'Sage mode'

The echoes of moaning winds silenced. Sound traveled through one ear and came out the other, everything muted. He couldn't even hear his breathing changing, becoming more relaxed.

Focused and serene like a still lake on a summer's day.

A tranquil expression settled onto his face, and in this empty space, only he remained.

In this moment, it was as if he stood on the surface of an unmoving ocean with not even the slightest ripple.

His lonesome figure seemed to be inviting heaven and earth as their energy surged towards him, his meridians and dantian pulsing with excitement.

Spiritual energy ran amok in his cells, a faint Qi enveloped his figure, layering him in a blanket of grey.

His figure appeared as if it was submerged in the grey flame of a candle, swaying slightly.

Laying his eyes on the Qi wrapped around Zhihui, the old man's white eyebrows drew into one solid line.

How many hundreds of years had it been since he was surprised? He, who had ventured multiple worlds and traveled through experiences in life, rarely felt confused.

Yet, the sudden change in the air around Zhihui left him bewildered. "Heavenly meditation... Endless Seas... –No, this is more profound...this focus can only be..." The old man's voice reduced to a whisper.

"Interesting..." Grey flames burning with intensity illuminated his eyes, the air around him rippled.

The wind roared with even more ferocity, yanking trunks from the trees, which creaked and bent underneath the pressure of the growing tornado.

Birds shrieked as they tried escaping from the stormy currents.

The clouds themselves were unable to break free, twisting at the peak of the swirling winds.

Barely visible, the wood staff spun violently before abruptly coming to a halt.

Birds flew through the air once more.

Leaves journeyed back to the earth.

Clouds ascended to the heavens.

Yet, the wind screamed in pain—pierced by the wooden staff pouncing towards Zhihui like a ravenous beast.

Its invisible wide-open jaw closed in on his left side, itching to devour him whole. Breaths away from his skin, it coiled like a snake, slithering to his right-torso at the last moment.

In that instant, like a blade of grass swaying on a windy morning, Zhihui leaned to the right, with howling winds resounding from his left, followed by the appearance of the wooden staff.

Then with feather-like grace, he sloped his head east.

From the west arrived baleful gales and the head of the wooden staff, hissing its grievance from missing its mark.

Again, it swept through the air with its fangs glistening.

This time, directly towards his chest.

In a movement that seemed so slow and clear—but took less than half a second—Zhihui's palms clamped down on the serpent's neck—the wooden staff secured within his palm.

When he saw the staff in his grasp, his indifferent and serene look quickly turned to one of joy. "I did it...heheh."

The old man's faint smile lasted only a second, hidden away by his puzzled expression. "What have you done?" he asked, however, his mouth made no movements.

Zhihui whipped his head back, only to see the old man standing behind him with a wooden staff in hand. He gazed back at his palm.

It was empty.

"Damn it." A loud thud followed his words.