The first time Chase truly sensed someone's killing intent, it felt like cold oil poured down his spine.
He was kneeling in the clearing, blindfolded—not that it mattered anymore—while Mason circled him silently, like a predator testing prey. Every so often, a twig snapped or wind shifted. Then…
The pressure hit him.
A thick wave of tension flooded the air. His breath caught.
His heart pounded.
He couldn't see Mason, but in that moment, he could feel him.
The intent wasn't just cold. It was sharp, aimed, like a blade drawn across his neck.
Chase ducked just as a wooden staff whooshed through the air above his head.
"Oho," Mason chuckled, stepping back. "You felt that, didn't you?"
Chase panted. "I—I think so."
"That's your Spirit Sense waking up." Mason's voice was low, almost proud. "Like stretching a muscle you never knew you had."
Chase raised his head. "I didn't dodge it on purpose… but I just knew."
"Exactly. Soon, you won't just know. You'll move before it happens."
By the end of the week, Chase could sense insects before they landed on him. He could dodge thrown sticks with startling precision. He still stumbled, but now, the world had outlines—sound, motion, intent.
Mason tested him constantly. One day it was flying branches. Another day, wild animals baited with meat. Then came the "accidental" hornet nest incident, which Chase suspected was not accidental.
But he adapted.
He grew.
At night, he meditated. Not to gather qi—he still lacked a dantian—but to feel the darkness. Let it surround him. Let it respond.
And sometimes, it did.
Like a whisper. Like a living thing.
He didn't understand it yet, but he didn't fear it either.
It wasn't long before Mason introduced weapons.
"Well," the old man muttered, tossing a wrapped bundle at Chase's feet, "can't let you stay barehanded forever. Pick your poison."
Chase opened it slowly. Inside were two short spears, curved slightly, smooth polished wood, reinforced with iron at the heads.
"I thought spears were long?"
"They are," Mason said. "But you're a slippery bastard. These will suit you better—swift, mobile, more thrust than swing. And later…"
"Later?"
"You'll forge your own. With your own fire." He paused, smiling. "Or darkness, I guess."
Chase gripped the spears. They felt light. Familiar.
"I've never used weapons before."
"Didn't stop you from surviving."
That night, Chase dreamed.
He stood at the edge of a vast void. No stars. No moon. Only infinite darkness.
And in the distance, a tower of obsidian rose from the abyss. At its peak, a black spear floated, humming with power.
He walked toward it, step by step. As he did, lightning coiled in the sky above, and his heartbeat echoed through the void.
When he reached the base, a whisper crept into his ears:
"Remember."
Chase woke up sweating, his hands sparking faintly with electricity.
The dream didn't fade. If anything, it haunted him. Mason noticed.
"Dreams are useful," Mason said, chewing roasted mushrooms. "Sometimes they show the future. Or the past. Or what your spirit's aching for."
"I saw a tower… and a spear."
"Then maybe the heavens are pointing you somewhere. Be grateful. Some people don't get direction until they're already dead."
"Comforting."
"You're welcome."
A few days later, they got visitors.
Or rather—uninvited guests.
Mason and Chase were out collecting herbs near a stream when Chase suddenly froze.
Three heartbeats. Far too heavy for rabbits or deer.
He turned his head. "Someone's following us."
Mason blinked. "Already, huh? Took longer last time."
"Last time?"
"Never mind. Act normal."
They walked a bit further until the trees thinned. Then three figures stepped into the path. Robed. Armed. One of them sneered.
"Old man. Hand over the kid."
Mason didn't blink. "And if I say no?"
The tallest man brandished a blade. "Then we take him from your corpse."
Chase gripped his short spears. "Do you know them?"
"Nope," Mason said cheerfully. "But judging by their boots, they're from the Cloud family. Or hired by them."
Chase's jaw clenched. "Still hunting me?"
"You're special," Mason said, smiling. "You'll have to get used to being hunted."
The men moved forward.
Chase's pulse rose.
He couldn't see—but he felt them.
One on the left, drawing a dagger.
Another charging head-on.
The third hung back, likely the smart one.
Chase breathed in, focused—and moved.
With fluid precision, he ducked the first strike, spun, and drove the butt of his spear into the attacker's knee.
Crack.
The man screamed.
Chase pivoted, catching the second man mid-swing. Their blades clashed, sparks flying. The vibrations sang up Chase's arm—but he didn't back down.
The third man charged—but then Mason appeared in front of him, plucking a twig from his sleeve.
With a casual flick, the twig shot forward and exploded on impact, sending the final attacker flying backward into a tree.
Chase finished his opponent with a hard strike to the gut, knocking him out.
Panting, Chase dropped to one knee.
"I… I did it."
"Barely," Mason said, already looting the bodies. "You still move like a drunk duck, but you didn't die. Congrats."
Chase chuckled weakly. "They'll keep coming, won't they?"
"Oh yes. In waves. The price of being interesting."
Later that night, as they burned the corpses and packed their things to move camp, Chase sat by the fire.
"I'm not strong enough yet," he said.
"Correct," Mason replied, sipping tea.
"But I want to be."
Mason looked over. "And you will be."
Chase stared into the flames.
"Next time," he whispered, "I want them to fear me."