Chapter 13
Chapter 13: Spells
Only then did the purple-robed boy seem to understand fear. His eyes darted. He collapsed to the ground and went limp.
Zhao Chun could tell he was pretending, but she had no interest in exposing him. She picked up her cloth bag and walked out. She had too much to do today to waste time here.
The Outer Sect of the Ling Zhen Sect spread across an enormous area. The daylily and bamboo gardens were close to the disciples’ quarters and the study hall, and even then the walk took an hour or two.
The Myriad Vault Tower—where spell manuals were issued—stood near the center of the valley. Zhao Chun could see it from afar, but traveling there on foot would take one or two days.
The sect knew this. It had Mist Skiff stations scattered throughout the grounds to transport disciples. No matter the distance, boarding cost two Cui Stones.
A three-root probationary disciple like Zhao Chun received 20 Cui Stones each month—enough for five round trips.
So unless something truly mattered, probationary disciples rarely traveled far.
It wasn’t that the sect was greedy. The talismans used to form the Mist Skiff took time and effort to craft. Unlike fireball talismans or water-shot talismans that were destroyed with a single use, these could be reused more than 20 times. Even so, a single talisman cost 300 Cui Stones.
At the Mist Skiff station, Zhao Chun registered her destination—the Myriad Vault Tower—and waited. Only after there were 20 travelers did a gray-clothed menial flick out a talisman. Mist gathered, shaped itself, and the skiff formed. Everyone climbed aboard.
In that group, Zhao Chun was the one traveling farthest. By the time they reached the Myriad Vault Tower, she was the only passenger left.
She stepped down. The skiff shimmered, scattered into a beam of light, and returned along its route.
The Myriad Vault Tower spanned the Sky-Piercing River. The east building held Outer Sect texts; the west building was reserved for the Inner Sect.
Countless spell manuals and secret techniques inside formed the foundation of the Ling Zhen Sect. Security was strict.
Zhao Chun presented her identity token, then endured two separate inspections before she was allowed inside.
At the entrance counter, a menial reminded her, “Probationary disciples may take one mid-grade Mortal Rank manual and two low-grade manuals. Anything beyond that costs 400 Cui Stones for a mid-grade and 100 Cui Stones for a low-grade.”
Zhao Chun had 18 Cui Stones total. She still needed two for the return trip. Even if she wanted more, she couldn’t afford it. After a moment’s thought, she started upstairs.
The Myriad Vault Tower had nine levels. It was built like a ring house: open to the sky in the center, with daylight pouring straight down.
Zhao Chun only qualified for the first three levels. Beyond that, she wasn’t allowed.
Even so, the selection was dizzying.
The first level held life spells—dust-clearing charms, voice amplification, and similar conveniences. Not what she needed.
The second level held weapon techniques: saber arts, sword arts, and all manner of martial forms. Zhao Chun raised her brows. So cultivators studied these too.
The third level focused on enhancing the cultivator’s own body and combat ability.
Tiger Strength Art, for example, could triple a cultivator’s strength once mastered. Serpent-Form Step could increase speed by twenty percent. Used together, they could elevate an early Qi Refining cultivator’s combat power by an entire tier, nearly unrivaled among peers—though against mid-to-late Qi Refining cultivators, their advantage diminished sharply.
The manuals on the shelves displayed only partial content to prevent disciples from stealing techniques by sight.
And mid-grade did not always mean better than low-grade. Much depended on the cultivator.
Armor-Affixing Art, a mid-grade spell, formed qi armor around the joints to protect against external injury. But it left vital areas—head, neck, chest, abdomen—exposed. A strike to a critical point could still decide a fight instantly.
Its rating came from difficulty: the qi armor was hard to cultivate, and once achieved it resisted blades and swords. Pair it with a technique that guarded the vitals, like Thick Armor Art, and it became truly formidable.
Among the low-grade options, Wa Ning Leaf Sword Method caught Zhao Chun’s attention. In her opinion, its usefulness didn’t lose to many mid-grade manuals. The moves were simple and fluid, capable of both attack and defense, perfect for beginners. It was effective quickly.
Still, in the Heng Yun world, spiritual qi was the foundation. Spells and techniques were support. Many believed only mortals and newcomers from Small World relied on such “external” methods.
Zhao Chun didn’t disagree. She needed to build her foundation first. But having one or two techniques that could raise her combat ability quickly was an advantage she couldn’t ignore.
Many mid-grade manuals weren’t impressive alone. Only when cultivated alongside complementary manuals did they truly shine.
Zhao Chun only had one mid-grade slot. A technique like Burst Qi Art—slightly weaker than some, but complete enough to cultivate from a single manual—was the practical choice.
For her low-grade selections, she chose Swift-Stride Sword Method.
Wa Ning Leaf Sword Method was balanced, but it was designed for beginners. To Zhao Chun, it was too simple, too reliant on brute force. She had kicked the purple-robed boy across the room because he was weak, not because she was strong. She refused to measure herself by weak opponents.
Strength remained her flaw.
She was small and light. Agile techniques suited her better. Swift-Stride Sword Method lived up to its name: not only was the sword fast, the manual also included footwork, making the body light as a swallow and swift as the wind. That such a method was shelved among low-grade manuals felt like a lucky find.
She still needed ranged attacks. Zhao Chun chose Single-Line Flying Knife to fill that gap. If she was going to use it, she would need custom throwing knives—small enough for her hands. Standard ones would be too heavy.
There were other low-grade sword methods she wanted, but money was money. She could only flip through them briefly and let them go.
With her choices made, she registered them at the counter and used up her allotted slots.
The gray-clothed menial fetched the complete manuals by name and shoved them into her hands. He said nothing except, “Here.”
By the time Zhao Chun rode the Mist Skiff back to the Daylily Garden, the sun was already half swallowed by the horizon.
The courtyard lay soaked in orange-red light, empty of human warmth.
The next day she rose early and rode the Mist Skiff to the Forge Hall. The round trip cost four Cui Stones. With twelve remaining, she planned to buy a small sword, then spend whatever was left on custom throwing knives.
The moment she stepped into the Forge Hall, she faced three walls crowded with tools and weapons.
She looked through everything and quickly realized the problem: there was variety, but nothing suited her size. Even the sword would need to be made to order.
A menial approached—tall and broad, beard stubble covering half his face. His voice was low. “See anything you like?”
Zhao Chun shook her head. “I’m too small. None of these fit.”
He blinked, then laughed. “Fair enough. You’re still a kid.”
Still amused, he led her into an inner room. “Tell me what you need. Three days. Someone will deliver it to you.”
“A sword about the length of my forearm,” Zhao Chun said. “How much?”
“A normal sword costs eight to ten Cui Stones. Yours is shorter—six.”
Zhao Chun thanked him, then asked, “I also need throwing knives. About a finger wide, the length of my palm. For six Cui Stones, how many can I get?”
The menial thought. “They’re not expensive, but small pieces take more time and effort. Three knives for one Cui Stone. Deal?”
Zhao Chun nodded. The order was set.
When she returned to the Daylily Garden, she was broke.
The Forge Hall’s efficiency, at least, lived up to its reputation. On the third morning, her order arrived.
Zhao Chun took the package with her to the dining hall. But when she returned, a group of black-clothed disciples blocked the entrance to her courtyard.
The leader called out, “Probationary disciple Zhao Chun of the Thirty-Ninth Court—where is she?”
Zhao Chun frowned and stepped forward. “I am.”
The leader’s expression eased slightly upon seeing she was just a little girl. “Yesterday at wei hour, you fought with Xu Kuang Rui, also a probationary disciple of the Thirty-Ninth Court. You injured his left ribs and broke a bone. Is that true?”
“It is.”
So fast, Zhao Chun thought, a cold curl of amusement in her chest.
The leader nodded. “Sect law forbids disciples from fighting privately. Violators are confined for six months.
“However, since this is your first offense and you did not strike first, your punishment is reduced by half. You will be confined for three months.
“Zhao Chun—do you accept?”
“Senior Brother,” Zhao Chun said, “what punishment will Xu Kuang Rui receive?”
The leader’s eyes cooled. “Naturally he will be punished. He provoked and struck first. He will be confined for six months.”
That was fair enough. Zhao Chun gave a faint smile. “This disciple accepts.”
“Then pack your things and come with us.”
The Ling Zhen Sect maintained a place specifically for punished disciples: the Hall of Repentance. It lay far and remote, with no human habitation for miles. It was meant as punishment, but also as tempering—an opportunity to grind down the heart and cultivate in stillness.
When Zhao Chun sat in her assigned quiet room, she found the silence deeper than anything she’d known. The frustration of missing class eased a little.