Chapter 16: Silent Growth

The white wolf stirred.

No longer moved by mere instinct. No longer driven by wild reflexes. Each motion now held a clear will—like an ancient soul had finally found a temporary vessel in this world.

It took a slow step forward.

At first, its gait was a little unsteady—like a child learning to walk. Its claws scraped softly against the earth, its body heavier than expected. The tail swayed slightly, drawing a smooth arc through the air.

"This feeling…"

The voice echoed in Hao Thien's mind, laced with a strange sense of curiosity.

"…familiar, and yet foreign."

The wolf's ears twitched, tuning into the surrounding sounds—the rustle of leaves, the wind slipping through branches, the soft flow of an underground spring… every detail felt amplified. The senses of this new body far surpassed those of any human.

It inhaled softly—air rushed into its lungs, then flowed out between sharp white fangs. Its breath carried a faint chill, like remnants of an ancient coldness still clinging to its soul.

Then it tested its tail.

A graceful motion. The silver-white fur shimmered faintly, slicing through the air like a quiet comet streaking across the void.

"Hm…"

It bent its legs and lightly pushed off the ground.

Not high—just a few meters—but the wings on its back gently unfurled, beating once.

Whoosh—

The white wolf soared into the air, hovering as if gravity had momentarily forgotten it. Its blue eyes scanned the treetops, adjusting to the new height, the new view, the new sense of freedom.

It landed, the descent as smooth and silent as silk.

"This body… is acceptable."

The voice now carried a touch of satisfaction.

"Not perfect, but… enough for a beginning."

Hao Thien stood nearby, arms folded, watching with calm eyes. He nodded slightly.

"So now you're no longer invisible."

"No," came the reply. "Now… I'm a companion."

Their eyes met—a young man and a being from a forgotten era—quietly, beneath the dappled forest light.

No contract was signed. No gods bore witness.

The white wolf, newly "reborn," shuddered slightly. Its gleaming white fur shimmered with every subtle movement, as if the soul within was still adjusting to its unfamiliar body.

It crouched low, spreading its newly grown wings, gently flapping them and stirring the leaves into a soft rustle. Its deep blue eyes blinked a few times, while the third eye on its forehead slowly closed, as though stabilizing the new energy it had just merged with.

Hao Thien stood nearby with his arms crossed, watching the scene with a mix of curiosity and… unease.

"…Why are you swaying like a cat that just crawled out of a puddle?"

The white wolf—or rather, the being that had just possessed the body—glanced at him with a sharp look, its voice sounding directly in Hao Thien's mind:

"This body is… smaller than I expected. I need to get used to having four legs again."

"What's so bad about four legs?"

"Try going from a being of pure consciousness into a body with a tail, fur, and fangs. Not awkward at all, right?"

Hao Thien chuckled. It was the first time he'd seen him act this disoriented.

"…Anyway, you need a name," Hao Thien said.

"What for?"

"So I don't have to keep calling you 'you' or 'him' all the time."

The being paused for a moment, then nodded slightly. "As long as it's not something ridiculous."

Hao Thien rested his chin in his hand, studying the creature from head to tail.

"…How about Bach Tuc? You're white, and your slow, calm steps kind of remind me of an old man."

"…Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

"No no, that's artful naming."

Bach Tuc sighed in Hao Thien's mind. "Fine. Bach Tuc it is."

"So… about that promise to make me stronger? Shall we begin?"

Bach Tuc nodded. "Close your eyes. I'll transmit the basic cultivation methods to you."

Instantly, a surge of memories flooded Hao Thien's mind—ancient diagrams, flowing scripts that danced like living things, each breath pattern, every circulation technique, and precise meridian points to open… all unfolded as if he had studied them for years.

When he opened his eyes, Hao Thien sat frozen like a statue.

"…Was all that really necessary?"

"That's just the beginner's level."

Hao Thien let out a sigh. "No wonder I'm still weak."

"Good. At least you're self-aware."

And so began the days of grueling training.

At dawn, he absorbed spiritual energy from the morning mist, following Bach Tuc's strict instructions. Every breath had to be as delicate as drawing golden thread—one misstep and Bach Tuc would comment dryly:

"Are you breathing or drinking the air? Slow down."

"Better, but you're circulating qi like you're choking yourself."

"At this point, even that leaf looks more focused than your spirit."

At noon, Hao Thien channeled energy through his meridians. When the pain felt like needles stabbing bone, he gritted his teeth. Sweat dripped to the ground, soaking into the stone beneath—right where Bach Tuc usually curled up for a nap and gave color commentary:

"Keep going. I bet you'll pass out in three minutes."

By evening, he practiced martial forms—striking at tree shadows, bark, and sometimes even dodging forest hornets. His body collected bruises and scrapes, but he never stopped.

At night, he meditated again, breathing steadily, keeping his mind focused.

Sometimes he nodded off mid-meditation—only to be tapped on the forehead by Bach Tuc's tail.

"If you were in my world, you'd have been kicked out of every sect by now."

"I'm not you, and I'm not from your world," Hao Thien replied, rubbing his forehead with a sheepish smile.

And so time passed.

Day by day, breath by breath, hour by hour—it was repetition. But within that repetition, something began to shift.

The qi within Hao Thien grew steadier. His spiritual energy no longer scattered. His gaze sharpened, his movements became crisp and forceful.

And in the heart of the forest, under the guidance (and constant banter) of a being from a forgotten era, a young man was slowly breaking past his limits.

Under the thick canopy of the primeval forest, only a few rays of sunlight managed to filter through the dense foliage. Hao Thien sat cross-legged, sweat still clinging to his brow after his morning cultivation. Across from him, Bach Tuc lay stretched out, wings gently folded, tail curled neatly to one side like a large resting beast—except for the sharp blue eyes that remained open, watching him intently.

"Today, I'll teach you a special technique," the voice rang clearly in Hao Thien's mind, calm and steady.

"What kind of technique?"

"Duplication."

Hao Thien raised an eyebrow. "You mean… create a copy of myself?"

"Not exactly a copy. It's a projection of your spiritual will and energy, condensed into form. It can fight, scout, or mislead enemies. But only one duplicate. Any more, and your body won't be able to handle it."

Bach Tuc slowly rose to his feet, stretching his wings lazily. Then he tapped the ground lightly with one paw. A faint ring of glowing sigils formed around Hao Thien, swirling like ripples in water.

"Focus carefully. This technique is called Shadow Walk Technique—a spell once used by an ancient clan to survive assassination."

Immediately, a stream of memories surged into Hao Thien's mind—transmitted directly from Bach Tuc. He saw images of spiritual energy converging, flowing through the heart meridian, gathering at the core before splitting into two streams—one retained inside, the other pushed outward. If guided correctly, the expelled stream would form a blurry figure, a living shadow without independent thought—completely controlled by the original.

"Sounds easy, but let's see if you can actually do it."

Hao Thien took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began circulating his energy along the route he had just learned. The most difficult part was separating the stream—his body felt unsteady, heart pounding, sweat trickling down his back as the strain built up.

"Slow down, don't rush. Spiritual will isn't something you yank around like a rope," Bach Tuc reminded.

A pale blue light began to emerge from Hao Thien's core. Slowly, a human-shaped figure the same size as him took form before him. Faint at first, then gradually clearer—it looked exactly like him, except… it didn't breathe.

Hao Thien opened his eyes. The duplicate opened its eyes at the exact same moment.

"You did it," Bach Tuc nodded.

Beneath the towering canopy of the ancient forest, time seemed to slow.

Day after day, Hao Thien trained with his clone. At the faintest glimmer of dawn, he stood in a small clearing, facing his own mirrored image. The practice wasn't just about throwing punches — it was about learning coordination. One attacked, the other defended, and then they switched. Every breath, every footstep, every glance was honed to precision.

Bach Tuc usually perched high in the trees, his tail swaying gently with the wind. He watched with sharp eyes, offering commentary — sometimes insightful, sometimes blunt, but always true.

"Your clone reacts half a beat too slow," he said as Hao Thien narrowly dodged a kick from his replica.

"You need it to move as you think, before you've even finished thinking."

"That sounds impossible," Hao Thien replied, panting as he wiped sweat from his brow.

"Impossible, but necessary," Bach Tuc answered. "Enemies won't wait for your thoughts to catch up."

There were days when Hao Thien was knocked flat by his own clone, tumbling against a tree trunk. But he never grew angry — he simply laughed quietly, stood up, and tried again.

And so the days passed. With each new scratch and bruise, Hao Thien's movements grew sharper. He began to feel the flow of spirit energy in the air, the pulse of the forest, even subtle shifts in the light between the leaves.

Night fell.

Hao Thien lay sprawled on a flat stone near the stream, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the starlit sky. Beside him, Bach Tuc lay coiled, his white fur glowing under the silver moonlight, wings folded neatly, tail wrapped around his paws.

"Have you ever just… watched the stars like this before?" Hao Thien asked, voice soft as the breeze rustling the leaves.

"Before?" Bach Tuc mused. "Maybe. Or maybe not. I don't really know."

"What were you, anyway?" Hao Thien turned to look at him.

"I wish I knew," Bach Tuc replied, his green eyes gazing skyward. "But maybe… if I've forgotten, it doesn't matter anymore."

Hao Thien chuckled. "You sound like some ancient hermit."

"I've lived thousands of years longer than you. 'Ancient' isn't too far off."

They fell quiet again. The stream trickled nearby, crickets sang faintly in the distance, and the stars twinkled above like silent witnesses.

"Do you think I can really become strong?" Hao Thien asked after a while.

"You're already becoming stronger," Bach Tuc said.

"But… will it be enough?"

Bach Tuc didn't answer right away. After a long pause, he said:

"No one knows what's enough. But if you keep going like this… at the very least, you won't fall too early."

Hao Thien nodded slightly. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift with the rhythm of his breath.

Overhead, a shooting star streaked across the sky.

And in that quiet forest, two unusual companions — a young man and an ancient presence — shared a wordless moment beneath the stars.