His movements had always been a glaring weakness—sluggish compared to those who had mastered speed and agility. If he wanted to truly become strong then he needed to change.
The answer he found was in the Phantom Steps. He held the slip tightly, his eyes scanning the glowing engravings that seemed almost alive. Each word described the tiers of the technique in vivid detail, painting a picture of what mastery could bring.
- Ghostly Walk: The first step to blending with the shadows, moving silently and without resistance.
- Mirage Step: By this stage, a cultivator could leave behind afterimages, creating confusion even for the sharpest of eyes.
- Ethereal Shift: Movement between the physical and the intangible, phasing through obstacles and attacks like a ghost.
- Phantom Ascension: The ultimate level, where the practitioner could step through space itself, vanishing and reappearing like a phantom.
Each tier seemed impossibly distant, yet Hope couldn’t help but feel a growing eagerness. The thought of mastering even the first stage filled him with anticipation. By the time he reached the final tier in his mind, his hands trembled slightly—not with fear, but with determination. This technique wasn’t just a tool; it was the lifeline he needed.
He calmed himself as set the jade slip aside and began practicing immediately. The instructions were straightforward but demanded absolute precision. To begin, Hope needed to channel his energy into his legs, harmonizing it with his movements while maintaining complete control. Easier said than done.
His first attempts were clumsy. He stumbled as he tried to soften his steps, the energy flow uneven and erratic. Still, he pushed on, repeating the movements over and over, sweat already forming on his brow.
Nearby, the little one sat chewing on a piece of beast meat. It tilted its head, watching Hope dart around the courtyard in what looked like random patterns. To the little beast, Hope’s movements were strange, almost playful, but it couldn’t look away. Its large eyes followed his every step with rapt attention, ears twitching at every sudden shift in movement.
Hours passed as the sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Hope’s movements grew smoother, his steps quieter. He was starting to feel it now—the subtle shift in his body as the technique began to take root.
“This feels... easier than it should” Hope muttered, his steps faltering as he paused to reflect.”
He remembered the girl from the library who had warned him about Heaven-ranked techniques. She’d said they were nearly impossible to master, that it could take years to even scratch the surface. Yet here he was, making progress in a matter of hours.
For a brief moment, doubt flickered in his mind. Was it his bloodline? He quickly shook the thought away. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help. He needed to focus.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
He resumed training, his steps becoming lighter, more deliberate. He concentrated on every movement, every flow of energy, until his body began moving instinctively. The little beast cocked its head, almost as if it were trying to mimic him, only to quickly give up and return to its meal.
As the moon rose and silver light bathed the courtyard, Hope’s focus sharpened. His movements became seamless, his figure gliding through the courtyard. Suddenly, he noticed something. His steps were barely audible.
His breath caught. His steps weren’t silent yet but it was an undeniable proof that he was progressing faster than he’d expected.
An expression almost surfaced across his face. He clenched his fists, feeling the fire of determination reignite within him.
“This is just the start” he said softly, his voice firm and resolute. He stepped forward, his movements lighter, quieter, each step drawing him closer to the mastery he sought.
The throne room loomed dark and foreboding, its high walls lined with ancient tapestries bearing the marks of time. Two figures entered in silence. At the forefront was a mature woman whose every step carried authority and confidence. Following her was a teenage girl, her presence no less composed despite her youth. Her movements were measured, her posture upright, betraying neither hesitation nor fear.
As they approached the throne, veiled by a white curtain adorned with golden serpents, both knelt in unison. The girl mirrored the woman’s actions flawlessly, her head bowing with precision. Her eyes, however, remained sharp, taking in every detail of the room from beneath lowered lashes. She wasn’t here to cower but to learn and serve.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until a voice emerged from behind the curtain—a cold, feminine tone that seemed to chill the very air.
“How did it go?”
The mature woman, lifted her head slightly, her voice steady and unwavering. “They should all be dead” she replied with certainty.
The teenager kept her head lowered, but her mind was focused. “Should” was a dangerous word in this hall. The figure on the throne demanded absolute precision, not ambiguity.
The voice cut through the stillness again, sharper this time. “Should?”
The girl felt the weight of the words but didn’t flinch. Instead, she observed the woman next to her out of the corner of her eye, studying how the seasoned woman handled the situation.
The mature woman bowed her head lower, her tone respectful but firm. “I wasn’t there myself, but I sent my people to confirm. They reported no survivors. There was nothing left at the place.”
A slow tapping began, the sound of fingers drumming against the armrest of the throne. The rhythm was deliberate, each tap carrying an unspoken warning. The girl’s posture remained steady, her breathing controlled. Yet, inwardly, she analyzed the situation. The tapping was a sign of dissatisfaction, perhaps even doubt.
After a moment, the voice spoke again, cold and commanding. “It had better be so. You know what will happen if it isn’t, don’t you?”
The woman’s response came without hesitation. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
The girl’s gaze flickered upward briefly, not out of nervousness but to gauge the exchange. She admired the authority of the figure on the throne, the way a single sentence could instill both fear and obedience. This was the kind of power she aspired to wield one day.
The voice dismissed them with finality. “You know what to do. Don’t disappoint me, Wei.”
Wei rose smoothly, her movements fluid and practiced, and the girl followed suit without a word. Her steps were as measured as her mentor’s, her head held high as they turned to leave the hall. She didn’t glance back at the throne; there was no need. Every word, every nuance of the exchange, was already committed to memory.
As they exited the room, the girl spoke for the first time, her tone low and composed. “What are your orders, Senior Wei?”
Wei’s lips curled into a faint, approving smile. “Patience, Lian. You’ll know soon enough.”
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