201. Core Summit (III)

When planning for the lecture, Zane and Reina had discovered a basic problem.

Most of what Zane knew, he didn't know. Consciously that was. It was like riding a bike. He didn't know how he did it, he just did it. It was all deeper down.

When Zane was trying to teach Reina during their test run, his advice mostly amounted to, 'just do it,' and then being confused why she could not do it. They tried it with Avery and got the same result. He kept telling Avery to keep doing it, and she kept getting grouchier, until she kicked him in the shins. She spent a while yelping clutching her foot.

At this point he realized it was probably a him problem.

It became quickly clear that they would have to find some other way to convey what he knew. He had to give his 'students' the kind of intuition he had.

The only way to get Core Formation was to feel it, Reina thought. She helped brainstorm with him. She ended up designing a series of games meant to represent the stuff in his brain. The games would go up in complexity until it was nearly the real thing.

They tried it again with Avery once she had settled, and it worked, and Avery declared that it was a miracle. She gave Reina the title of 'Zane Whisperer.' …This was not wrong, Zane thought.

***

Come lesson time, he did his thing.

He started patting down the snowball. Getting each layer smooth as could be. It wasn't exactly like essence but it had a close enough feel. That was why they chose it.

"Pay attention to how Zane's patting it to get the air pockets out," said Reina by his side. She started giving analysis, picking out details Zane usually didn't even pay attention to. "You want to make sure there's no bumps. Each little bump gets matted over and over as you go. That imperfection will only stay—and grow—as you build the rest of the snowman."

"We must make perfect balls," Zane agreed.

The World Rankers did not get where they were because they were silly folk. They caught on pretty quick.

As they went, their snowballs growing bigger, Reina kept bringing their attentions to other insights. Specific cues to look for, or signs that problems might be forming. And ways Zane would address them.

Before they started all this Reina had had Zane make ten snowballs. Then she observed him very carefully. She took note of all the little things he did by feel to make sure each layer was right. Her memory was so good she didn't need to pause to write things down—so she could put 110% focused attention on him. It was fascinating watching her work. He could almost hear all the gears turning in her head—he got the impression she was picking every little thing up.

She was so smart. It put a warm feeling in Zane's chest.

In testing, she'd given him little variations. Got him to paste that unusually thick heavy layer on his hands, like a dense sheet of essence and see how he worked out the smoothness. She'd given him a layer with an ice chip in it, which would simulate a knot of essence and see how he circled around it to smooth it, nodding all the while.

He'd felt kind of like some ape in its natural habitat, and she was a researcher noting his habits or something. He found it kind of funny.

By the end of it she'd gotten most of his instinctual knowledge out in the open. Now—knowing it was not the hard part. Doing it was. But with that knowledge, she could make herself a master coach—basically the translator of Zane's subconscious mind.

Otherwise it would have been pretty impossible.

***

Reina started dropping in more little tips as time went on, and the snowmen started taking shape. She started getting them thinking about using their souls the way they were using their hands. Just visualizing it for now.

The World Rankers picked things up fast. An hour in most of them were making pretty darn good snowballs. Following the Zane way.

***

"Next game!" called Reina after an hour. She clapped her hands.

So far things were going pretty well, Zane felt. He saw lots of solid snowmen. Lots of ready students.

Now they were going to make another snowman. This time with closed fists.

A fair number of the World Rankers—who had completed rather impressive snowmen, some of which had scarves and stick-arms and steel pipes for noses—were a little reluctant at first to give up their creations. They had worked so hard.

They were also baffled. Why closed fists? Reina explained that in the astral plane, the joints of their soul couldn't articulate the way fingers could in the physical plane. The only way they could manage fine control was with a specific Skill—Zane's Emperor's Soul. But that seemed something exclusive to Zane.

Most seemed to accept it. They went at their new snowmen for a bit. It was a lot harder this time—some took half an hour of failing over and over only to make a sphere full of lumps.

Less fun, but most of them committed to getting it right.

***

This one was a lot more of a grind, though.

An hour in, Zane heard a groan. It came from one of the teenaged monks from the Shaolin Temple—a young Chosen of theirs the Spitfire Monk had brought along. His name was Xiaolong. He kicked his lumpy snowman over.

"This is stupid. Why can't I do it how he does it?" whined Xiaolong.

Reina blinked. She tried to be diplomatic. "Zane came upon his Skill due to the unusual nature of his soul," she said. "It's best not to rely on that."

The teen frowned. He lifted his chin. "Miss Torres, I assure you I am extremely talented. More than enough. Teach me the Skill."

He spoke like he was used to people—likely his servants—obeying him instantly.

"I'm certain you're talented," said Reina, nodding. "I'm afraid we're not set up for that, though. Let's stick with the lesson plan for now, alright?"

This did not sit well with the teen. "Excuse me? You don't seem to understand who you're dealing with. I am Xiaolong Shen, a Chosen of the Shaolin Temple!"

He waited, as though Reina would suddenly give in. When Reina didn't his frown deepened. Meanwhile his fellow monks seemed mildly horrified by his outburst. They tried pulling him down, but he shook them off.

"Master Spitfire says my soul is among the best in the world. If he can do it—" he nodded at Zane. "So can I! If you insist on continuing to waste my time with these stupid games—"

Clink!

It was the Spitfire Monk himself. He had flicked a bottle cap off the boy's head. It didn't do any damage—just got the boy's attention. Xiaolong blinked at his Faction leader confused.

"Have you finished making an ass of yourself? Or would you like to embarrass our Faction further?" said the Monk dryly.

Xiaolong looked shocked. "But—"

"I said you compared to the best in the world in soul talent—I did not tell you to go comparing yourself to Zane freaking Walker! Fool boy," said the Monk, scowling. He burped.

The boy looked baffled. "But—"

"Open your third eye! Look at him in the Astral plane."

The teen did—it seemed to take a moment for him to adjust. When he did get a good look at Zane he went quite pale.

And to be fair—this Xiaolong did have good soul talent. It was a little over A9. It wasn't wrong to say he did rank among the best in the world. It was just that his soul still only went up to about Zane's belly. The little guy was staring up at him with his mouth wide open.

"Oh," croaked the boy. "Oh god."

"Pssh," said the Monk. "That is the problem with you, child—you are so full of hot air, because you have not seen anything. You don't know how big the world truly is—now you know! Do not speak to me about talent in the presence of this man." He nodded to Zane, then back to Xiaolong. "You've embarrassed me enough. Go back to camp. I will deal with you when I return."

Chastened, flushing, the boy scurried off.

The Monk turned to Zane, looking awkward. He set down his wine bottle and bowed. "I must apologize, Master Savage Sage—my disciple is young and foolish…It was high time he was humbled. I will have a word with him."

"It's alright," said Zane. He didn't care. Still—other top World Rankers seemed to be bending over backwards to avoid even the possibility of offending him. That was pretty new.

***

They were all diligently making snowmen. A few hours in about a quarter of them had gotten one knuckle-snowman up to standard.

Most of the top World Rankers managed it. Vanessa had the most interesting time of it—she was constantly frowning at her snowman. Probably because her first instinct was to have the snow make itself. She had to constantly make herself not influence the snow. It was very confusing for her, but she managed it in the end.

She made a pretty little snowman of three perfect spheres.

She narrowed her eyes at it, though, like it had betrayed her. "Hmph," she said once she finished up.

The key was to be patient with it. A bunch of them just gave up after an hour of failed attempts—they started watching other World Rankers try theirs. At least they would have the knowledge of it to take home.

Maxime Legrande, the Frenchman, was clean-shaven with luscious locks of black hair. He seemed quite a sophisticated, mannered guy when he met Zane. When he first started out he wasn't very comfortable making snowmen—like he was only used to holding teacups and dessert spoons. Not blobs of snow. His white gloves kept slipping on the stuff.

But two hours in he had thrown off his rich velvet cloak. His gloves were gone too—he had whole piles of snowballs beside him. He was grinning like a boy again, spinning perfect snow globes on his fingertips. He had done among the best of the lot. Zane would later learn he had A5 leveling talent but A9 soul talent.

"Show-off," snorted one of the British cultivators. "Prick," said the Brit beside him.

Maxime looked over side-eyed. "From the football I gathered you had clumsy feet—but you would expect nothing more from Englishmen."

He gave the Brits' snowballs a once-over with aristocratic disdain. "It seems you have clumsy hands too. Master Walker's methods require finesse! I'm afraid it is quite beyond you."

"Why, you—!" spluttered the Brit. "You— you take that back! Or—or else—"

"Clumsy with words as well, I see—tsk-tsk." Maxime smoothed back a lock of hair and strode off, leaving them fuming. They were almost ready to go after him, but Cain Hastings put big hands over their shoulders and shook his head.

Cain was having a better time of it. He kept breaking his at first, and was sweating the whole time, but he did not give up. He kept muttering, impressive mustache twitching, and throwing himself back into it.

In the end his snowman wasn't too bad—better than average. A little chunky but it had character. Cain puffed up with pride at the sight of it.

***

"Alright, everyone," said Reina, after most had either given up or finished. "It's time for the final progression. I should warn you—this one could get dangerous. You'll need to be extra careful."