The terraces trembled beneath its growl. The beast padded forward on paws of bark, each step sinking into the spirit rice fields without crushing stalks, as if the plants bent in fearful reverence. Its eyes—twin embers in a skull of ash and timber—fixed on the trembling outer disciples as one might regard kindling.
"Qi Condensation realm at least," a disciple gasped, face pale. "It shouldn't be here—it should be deeper in the range!"
No one moved. They were farmhands with spears, mortals barely touching the edge of cultivation. Against a spirit beast that drank qi with every breath, their courage wilted like cut grass.
Only Aang stepped forward.
The Air Awakens
The wolf's gaze snapped to him, pupils widening with recognition—or perhaps hunger. Aang's robes whispered as the mountain breeze caught them. He drew a long, measured breath, and the cyclone within answered, petals unfurling in his dantian. Qi mingled with air until his chest felt both hollow and infinite.
The beast lunged.
It was swift, more shadow than body, a blur of bark and green flame. Disciples screamed. Spears lifted too slowly. But Aang was already moving.
He stepped aside—not with brute speed, but with the softness of a leaf falling out of a gust. His body yielded, redirecting the beast's momentum past him. With a gentle twist of his wrist, the wind gathered and shoved, just enough to tilt the wolf's landing askew. Its claws raked earth where he had stood, sparks hissing.
The onlookers gaped. They had seen cultivators dodge, roll, or meet strikes head-on, but never yield so lightly, never guide danger past them as if it had always meant to miss.
Cultivator's Strike, Nomad's Dance
Zhang Wei, perhaps desperate to erase his earlier humiliation, shouted hoarsely and charged. His qi flared into his palm, bright and crude, the Sunder Palm once more. He slammed it against the beast's flank.
The wolf barely flinched. Bark cracked, ash scattered, but the beast only twisted its head, green embers brightening. Its tail lashed, knocking Zhang Wei sprawling, blood spraying from his mouth.
"Fool," Aang murmured. Not cruelly—only with the tired pity of one who had seen pride collapse many times before.
The wolf turned again, ember-eyes locking on Aang. It lunged a second time, jaws wide enough to snap his torso in half.
Aang inhaled sharply, then thrust his palms forward.
The air erupted. A compressed gust hammered into the wolf's skull, not enough to shatter bark but enough to shove the beast back mid-leap. It landed heavily, paws gouging furrows in the soil, a growl vibrating the terraces.
Gasps rose from the disciples. To their eyes, Aang had just unleashed a Qi Condensation technique—yet no seal, no mantra, no visible strain marked him. It had flowed like breath, like nature itself lending a hand.
The Wolf's Qi
The wolf threw back its head and howled. The sound was not noise—it was qi given voice. A shockwave rippled outward, flattening rice stalks and rattling the bones of those too near. Aang staggered, ears ringing, cyclone wobbling inside his dantian.
Its qi is denser than mine… this is the strength of a beast aligned with heaven and earth, he thought.
But where the wolf's qi was heavy, crude, and wild, his was agile. Where it was a boulder tumbling down a slope, he was the breeze curling between its cracks.
Aang exhaled, guiding the cyclone until it spun smoothly again. His stance lightened, the world around him clearer.
I can't overpower it head-on. But I don't need to.
Riding the Current
The wolf charged once more, faster now, its body blurring into smoke and wood. But Aang was ready.
He shifted into Cloud-Treading Steps, the footwork he had copied from the Hall of Records. His body moved with eerie grace, soles barely kissing the ground. Each step borrowed the wolf's momentum, pulling him just out of reach, guiding its strikes into emptiness.
When the wolf bit, he was already at its flank. When its claws raked, he was already behind. The watching disciples could barely follow his outline, their eyes darting helplessly.
And then—an opening.
The wolf twisted too far, bark cracking along its shoulder. Aang's palm brushed its flank. He whispered to the wind, and the wind answered. A sudden vortex spun from his hand, lifting the beast sideways and slamming it into the earth with a crash of splintering wood.
The terraces shook. Dust billowed.
The wolf rose again, but slower now. Its ember eyes narrowed, not with mindless fury but… recognition. It tilted its head, ash drifting from its mane, as if sniffing out the strangeness of this disciple who fought with neither saber nor spell, whose qi danced like laughter.
Then, with a final growl, it turned. Mist swallowed its form as it bounded back into the pines.
Aftermath
The disciples stood frozen, hearts thundering in the silence left behind. No one cheered. No one spoke. Only their eyes turned, one by one, toward Aang.
He lowered his palms, breathing evenly, cyclone steady in his belly. His robe was unmarked, his face calm, as though he had only walked through morning fog.
To them, he had stood at the threshold of qi cultivation for barely a day. And yet he had repelled a spirit beast.
Zhang Wei coughed blood into the soil, staring at Aang with something between hatred and awe.
"Who… what are you?" whispered another disciple.
Aang looked at his hands, still tingling with wind. I wish I knew, he thought.
But aloud, he only said, "Feng Mu. Outer disciple."
The mountain wind chuckled softly, as if mocking the simplicity of that lie.