The night after Leo's first true cultivation passed quietly.
But when morning came—
Hunger came with it.
Not ordinary hunger.
Leo woke before sunrise, his stomach aching, his body burning faintly from within as if every part of him was crying out for nourishment. His limbs felt light, almost hollow, yet his senses were sharper than ever.
He sat up slowly, confused.
Why am I so hungry…?
Before he could think further, the door opened.
His mother stepped inside.
She took one look at him and smiled knowingly.
"So it's begun," she said softly.
Leo blinked. "Mother… I'm hungry."
She chuckled lightly and placed a hand on his head.
"That's good," she replied. "Very good."
The kitchen was already alive with warmth.
Fresh vegetables filled the table—steamed roots, leafy greens, grains simmered with clear broth, and fragrant herbs chopped finely. Everything was simple.
And yet—
The food felt different.
Each dish carried a faint, natural vitality.
Leo ate.
And ate.
And ate some more.
The food disappeared faster than his mother could place it down. Instead of feeling heavy, his body absorbed everything greedily, warmth spreading through his limbs, settling into his dantian like fuel being stored for a long journey.
Wilson laughed in disbelief. "Is he really that hungry?"
The old swordmaster stroked his beard, eyes thoughtful. "Body purification drains reserves. This is normal."
Leo finished the last bowl and leaned back, satisfied.
Warm.
Safe.
Happy.
For the first time since his cultivation began, he felt like a child again.
That night, they ate together.
A simple dinner.
No war.
No cultivation talk.
Just laughter, soft conversation, and the quiet comfort of family.
The next morning—
Wilson approached Leo with a grin.
"Come," he said, kneeling slightly. "It's time you train with me."
Leo's eyes lit up.
"Train?"
Wilson nodded proudly. "I'll teach you my unique bow techniques. Not just shooting—but how to see distance, angle, wind, and intent. Archery is not about strength alone."
Before Leo could answer—
A cane tapped the ground.
"No."
The old swordmaster stepped forward.
Wilson frowned. "Father?"
"He is a sword genius," the old man said firmly. "I felt it when he circulated his energy. His foundation aligns naturally with the blade."
Wilson crossed his arms. "He has my blood. Archery is his destiny."
"Archery requires patience," the swordmaster shot back. "Sword cultivators are decisive."
"Bow cultivators rule from afar."
"Sword cultivators dominate up close."
Their auras stirred.
Nothing violent.
But sharp.
Leo stood between them, unsure whether to speak.
The argument escalated.
"Your arrows are impressive," the swordmaster said coldly, "but the sword decides battles."
Wilson scoffed. "Your sword almost cost you your life."
Silence fell.
The air grew heavy.
Then—
A calm voice cut through it.
"That's enough."
Leo's mother stepped forward.
Both men froze.
She looked at them evenly, her gaze steady, unreadable.
"Our son is a genius," she said simply.
The words landed like thunder.
Both men stared at her.
"…What?" Wilson asked.
"A genius," she repeated. "Not just a bow genius. Not just a sword genius."
She placed her hand gently on Leo's shoulder.
"He can learn everything."
The courtyard went silent.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
The old swordmaster slowly narrowed his eyes. "That kind of path…"
"…is dangerous," Wilson finished.
She nodded. "Yes."
Then smiled faintly.
"But danger is not the same as impossibility."
Leo looked up at her.
His heart beat faster.
She continued, "You will both teach him. All that you know. Sword. Bow. Discipline. Technique. Wisdom."
She turned to Leo.
"What he can learn," she said softly, "will be his choice."
"And what he cannot…"
She did not finish.
She didn't need to.
The meaning lingered in the air.
They reached a decision that day.
Leo's mornings would belong to the swordmaster.
Stance.
Footwork.
Breath.
Control.
His afternoons would belong to Wilson.
Distance.
Trajectory.
Focus.
Intent.
Evenings—
Would be his own.
Observation.
Meditation.
Choice.
Leo accepted without hesitation.
Inside, something stirred.
I don't want to choose yet, he thought.
I want to understand everything first.
The swordmaster began immediately.
He handed Leo a wooden sword.
"Do not swing," he said. "Stand."
Leo stood.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
"Feel your weight," the old man instructed. "The sword is not an extension of your arm. It is an extension of your will."
Leo adjusted.
Time slowed imperceptibly.
His stance corrected itself.
The swordmaster frowned.
Then smiled.
Dangerous…
That afternoon, Wilson handed Leo a small bow.
No string.
No arrows.
"Close one eye," he said. "Look."
Leo looked.
He didn't see distance.
He felt it.
The space between objects aligned naturally.
Wilson swallowed.
"…Again."
Leo repeated it.
Better.
Days passed.
Leo learned quickly.
Too quickly.
Not recklessly.
Not arrogantly.
But with frightening ease.
The swordmaster taught technique.
Wilson taught control.
Leo absorbed both.
And every night—
His mother watched.
Silent.
Proud.
Restrained.
Late one night, as Leo meditated—
Sword intent stirred faintly.
Bow intent responded.
Music hummed softly through the air.
Time pulsed.
Space folded.
And the path before him widened.
Not one road.
Not two.
But many.
And for the first time—
The world began to feel uneasy.