Aster’s staff drags behind him like a reluctant limb. Every spin, every pivot, every step through the scripture’s so-called “fluid” movements feels like he’s auditioning to be an interpretive dance rendition of a landslide. The techniques are burned into his brain with the clarity of divine commandment, but his body—oh, his traitorous, mundane body—has the grace of a brick in a washing machine.

  The Point Burst Scripture is very clear on form. Decapitation should come from the left, elegance from the wrist. Or something to that effect. The master who wrote it has been many things—hallucinogenic-addled, hunted, sexually repressed, apparently—but sloppy is not one of them.

  Aster tries to follow the movements embedded in his bones like haunting choreography. His spirit strains to recreate the mastery he’s absorbed, but his limbs lag behind, mutinous and sulky. It feels like trying to paint with someone else’s hand stapled to your wrist.

  Focus, he tells himself. Feel the tether points. Find the line. Anchor the will.

  And then—woosh.

  All around him, his classmates rewrite the definition of overachievers.

  A sword lit like a funeral pyre carves through the air just meters away, slicing through wind projectiles hurled by a silver-haired duelist. Aster’s gaze is yanked from his technique as flame clashes with air, their battle casting reflections of red and white across the training courtyard.

  The fire cultivator moves like a blade himself—every step a threat, every swing a promise of ruin. The wind cultivator parries and dodges with barely a whisper of effort, feet gliding over the grass like he’s allergic to touch.

  Aster blinks. “Okay, that’s just showing off.”

  Another clash, this one ground-shaking. An earth cultivator brings down a hammer the size of a car engine, sending shards of rock hurtling at their opponent. The water cultivator—graceful, poised—raises a spear and turns the onslaught into a fine mist with one flick of her wrist. Her follow-up strike splits the air and sends her opponent flying, soaked and stunned.

  It is art. It is power. It is maddening.

  Compared to them, his Spirit typing feels like being the only person in a gunfight who’s brought a really moving poem.

  He tries again. Step, pivot, swing—feel the line between intention and movement, let your Will guide the burst—

  Nope.

  It still feels like his joints are installed backward. The scripture hums in his bones like a tuning fork made of regret. The master's instincts are there, etched into him like scars, but his body just doesn’t have the mileage. Or the talent. Or the golem-chasing trauma, apparently.

  He stifles a groan, watching the others sling lightning and stone, mist and flame like gods on recess. Here he is—Spirit typed. The only element he can summon is ‘desperation.’

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The bell rings, the universal mercy-kill of class.

  Two hours of effort. Two hours of trying to become something more. Two hours of spinning a staff in an attempt not to become the world’s first self-inflicted chiropractic case study. There are gains, sure—tiny postural improvements, a fraction more grace, a fraction less shame. But the distance between where he is and where everyone else stands?

  Uncrossable.

  He limps through the nearest mirror gate and steps into the Marlisuee district, where calming bamboo engravings are serene in the way expensive funerals are. The marble walls and copper trims do little to soothe his frustration.

  Outside the classroom, Lena stands with a small group, casually chatting. She catches sight of him and waves him over.

  “Aster! How was combat class?”

  “Imagine a toddler wielding a broom in a hurricane,” he says, deadpan. “Now imagine the broom hates him.”

  Lena winces sympathetically. “That bad?”

  “I saw a guy cut air with fire. Another one threw a boulder. I nearly concussed myself spinning in a circle. Spirit typing sucks.”

  To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. Not immediately. Just an eyebrow raise, followed by the tell-tale twitch of a suppressed grin.

  Then she loses it.

  Aster folds his arms, glowering. “Good to know my personal crisis is this semester’s comedy hit.”

  “I’m not laughing at you,” Lena manages through a snort. “Okay, no—I am a little. But mostly because of how hilariously wrong you are.”

  Aster scowls. “Do enlighten me.”

  “You remember Yani?” Lena says, tone suddenly innocent.

  “Petite, quiet, probably could be taken down by a strong breeze? Yeah. Why?”

  “She has Spirit typing.”

  Aster stares at her. “Yeah, you mentioned?”

  “I’ve seen her in combat class,” Lena says, the smugness practically dripping now. “She’s terrifying. A blur. Like a ghost with a personal vendetta and perfect form. I watched her disarm a fire cultivator mid-cast, then use his own flame burst to knock him unconscious. With a palm strike.”

  Aster’s jaw hangs open. “That girl with the marshmallow voice and no muscle tone is a murder whirlwind?”

  Lena beams. “Mhm.”

  “Well,” Aster mutters. “Good to know I’m not just weak—I’m blind too.”

  “You’re just uneducated,” she says sweetly. “Come on. You need a pick-me-up.”

  He narrows his eyes. “History class?”

  “History skipping class,” she corrects. “We’re going to pay Yani a little visit.”

  “Just to watch, right?” Aster says warily. “Not to spar?”

  Lena doesn’t answer. Which is worrying.

  Three mirrors later, they step back into a combat courtyard. The Sergeant’s voice already booms across the field, students lining up in uneven pairs, the scent of pre-battle adrenaline thick in the air.

  “They haven’t started yet,” Lena says, spotting the cluster of students. “I’ll go find Yani.”

  Aster stands there, gripping his staff like it owes him money, bracing for the next reminder that Spirit typing isn’t weak.

  It’s just... waiting for the right psychopath to prove it.

  Lena walks across the dueling field toward Yani, and Aster, doing his best not to look like someone who’s just publicly faceplanted in staff class, watches the two exchange a few quick words. Lena gestures in his direction, and Yani glances over—

  Then they both burst out laughing.

  “Wonderful,” Aster mutters. “Glad to know I’ve graduated from ‘mysterious new student’ to ‘walking punchline.’”

  Yani, for her part, doesn’t seem mean-spirited about it. She gives him a cheery wave and starts walking toward the center dueling arena. The smile on her face is the kind of thing you might expect from someone about to pet a puppy. Not murder a man with a boulder.

  “What did you say to her?” Aster asks as Lena returns, smirking.

  “Just told her you were skeptical.”

  “That’s not what you said. That’s what diplomats say. Whatever you told her, she laughed like you read her a roast.”

  “Oh please,” Lena says, waving a hand dismissively as they find seats. “You’re going to thank me after this.”

  Aster flops into the seat. “I better, or you’re buying lunch until the next reincarnation cycle.”