For a week, Silva was nothing but a humble gardener, returning to the hobby that had kept his soul alive for nearly a century after spending the last four years engaged in nearly non-stop training.
Not only that, but Silva knew that this was the last time for the foreseeable future he would be able to engage in such a mundane activity. Neither needing sleep nor regular sustenance, Silva tended to the neglected courtyard for seven straight days, breathing life into the space.
The rest bit allowed Silva to reflect on how far he had come, immersing himself in an environment that mirrored his humble beginnings. Silva tended the garden day and night, moving at what some would consider a snail's pace. However, when the first week elapsed, Silva's task was complete, and his window to reminisce had closed.
The bramble had been cut back and unrooted, the packed dirt turned over, and seeds from Silva's personal collection had been sown and supplemented with bonemeal. It would take some time before the courtyard would be teeming with life, but it already looked far better than the infested nest of thorny vines it had once been. There was nothing more for Silva to do, but he did not leave the courtyard.
With nothing but a reed mat, Silva set up a temporary residence among the freshly turned earth and budding grass. Sitting in the middle of the courtyard, Silva could be mistaken for a statue with his eyes closed and his chest hardly moving. Having reached the second realm, Silva's body had grown beyond the needs of a mortal. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and even breathing were no longer requirements. Though having spent the last hundred years doing all four habitually, it would be some time until Silva could fully adjust.
Such was the purpose of Silva's meditation: to acclimate himself with the countless changes his ascension had caused throughout his spirit and body. Of course, no change was more impactful than the ability to manipulate Qi.
Even if Fal believed there was no need to formally teach Silva Qi manipulation, that did not mean Silva had absolute mastery or completely understood his capabilities. Rather, Fal had meant that, like a fish in water, Silva's instincts would guide him far better than any formal instruction, doubly so given his unique circumstances.
Sitting on his reed mat, Silva looked as if he were doing nothing, even though this was far from the case. The slight distortion in the air around him revealed that Silva was surrounded by a veil of Qi. The veil was an empowered version of shroud, the most basic technique that relied on the principle that more was better. However, such a belief only worked if the shroud encountered a force following the same ethos.
Against simple punches, kicks, and other Qi-infused attacks, Silva was confident in his ability to withstand such blows. But against any true technique, Silva knew that his empowered defenses would be next to useless.
Real techniques, those passed along as inheritances, required more than a simple output of Qi; there were far more qualitative aspects, depending on the technique's grade and tier.
Just as cultivators were evaluated on their ascension, techniques were judged by their grade, the equivalent of phases, and tier, the equivalent of realms. Within any given tier, there were four tiers: low, middle, high, and peak that represented how far or close the technique was to progressing to the next grade, which was an exponential difference.
An Earthly technique could only manipulate the physical properties of Qi; a Spiritual technique could attune Qi to a specific affinity, while a Sovereign technique could incorporate natural law to bend and warp reality itself.
However, just because one possessed a Sovereign technique did not mean they could realize its full potential. One still had to grasp the basics of the technique, achieving Earthly, then Spiritual mastery, as they obtained the prerequisites before moving on to the final tier. A task that was far easier said than done.
But what Silva was attempting was infinitely harder. The reason techniques were so heavily guarded is that they guaranteed a certain level of power by providing detailed instructions for obtaining it. Even being somewhat proficient with a middle-tier technique could see the average cultivator becoming a force to be reckoned with.
So, attempting to create one was usually an effort reserved for those who had progressed far enough along their path that no technique could display their true strength.
Silva was not at that point, and by not learning the technique, he would be at a severe disadvantage against anyone who did. In fact, Silva would most likely have lost to Vranga had his brother not been so overconfident and intent on destroying his staff with his opening attack. Still, despite the severe disadvantage Silva was putting himself in, he didn't deviate from Fal's advice.
'At my current level of strength and understanding, I can only hope to manipulate the physical properties of my qi, which is still no easy feat.'
Flexing his will, Silva attempted to condense the Qi surrounding his body, trying to create something resembling armor, but success eluded him. Qi naturally did not want to change its base nature and resisted any attempts forced upon it. The more Qi one tried to shape at a given time, the greater the resistance.
Of course, this was all relative to the shaper's strength and skill in manipulating Qi, which could be honed through years of practice. Years that Silva did not have, which is why his expectations were so low. However, that did not mean his endeavor was pointless.
With a thought, Silva dismissed his shroud and instead held up a single finger, focusing on one of the thousands of spiritual roots on his fingertip. Once he felt the connection from Silva, he projected his Qi from that singular root.
A thin wisp of Qi rose into the air from Silva's fingertip, no thicker or longer than an individual string of silk. Asserting his will over the strand of Qi, Silva felt far less resistance and was even able to control the qi with his mind, watching as it moved left to right and back like an invisible wind was acting upon it. Experimenting some more, Silva found he could adjust the strand's length with relative ease by controlling the output of Qi.
Encouraged by his success, Silva practiced his control, going through countless repetitions of various exercises he devised. By tying knots, piloting the strand several meters through the air, and picking up fallen branches and leaves, manipulating the Qi string became as simple as breathing.
While he was pleased by his progress, Silva was far from satisfied. Managing to control a single strand of Qi was not a noteworthy accomplishment. But Silva had never intended to stop at just one.
Soon, a second strand joined the first, and Silva felt all his progress vanish. Dividing his attention in half made the exercises exponentially harder. Silva remembered how, as a mortal, he had learned to play various musical instruments that required precise and individual finger movements to produce the desired sound. When he first started, Silva's mind could hardly differentiate between his fingers as they insisted on moving in tandem. Silva faced a similar conundrum, attempting to control the Qi strings simultaneously. Over and over, he failed, but Silva was not discouraged; his time as a mortal had given him a wealth of patience and practice with the mundane.
---
Fal could not suppress his excitement as he made his way towards the courtyard Silva had secluded himself in. Which, in hindsight, had been the best course of action. Fal doubted that his nephew had any idea about the chaos his sudden appearance had caused. Rumors began festering like maggots among the staff, which were only intensified by the fact that no servant or guard had seen the Patriarch's bastard.
Luckily, Fal had the foresight to forbid anyone outside the main family from approaching the section of the compound that housed Silva's courtyard, using his power as Disciplinary Elder to promise strict punishment for anyone who disobeyed his direct order.
Whether such actions fueled speculation further, Fal didn't choose to dwell on, nor did he half to, seeing as news of something of a far greater magnitude began spreading throughout the Clan. War was imminent, and the enemy was perhaps one of the most feared factions in the realm due to their tendency towards indiscriminate violence and a love of widespread destruction.
There was a charge in the air, like a storm brewing on the horizon, one that made Fal's body surge with an electric charge. Since the news had broken, the clan's forge had never once gone cold, and the distant ringing of hammers had never quieted.
Fal's ancient memory had been stirred as the familiar atmosphere of war returned, one that would determine the weather for years to come: 'Let us see if you're prepared to withstand it, Little Vine.'