The next month passed in relative peace—something that, in the case of Han Yu, was more alarming than any ambush.
Gone were the days of laundry room brawls, mistaken wise immortals, and exploding pill experiments. No socks floated from disciple chambers. No elders stared suspiciously at him. No alchemists stalked him with vials of bubbling horror. Han Yu, much to everyone’s surprise, behaved.
Fatty Kui had returned to seclusion under his master, groaning about "boulder squats" and "spiritual crunches" as he was dragged away by a grinning elder. The next time Han Yu saw him, Kui promised, he would be a new man—taller (questionable), leaner (highly doubtful), and capable of surviving at least fifty falling rocks per day (maybe).
That left Han Yu to his own devices, and for once, his devices were serious cultivation.
Each morning, he sat cross-legged in his courtyard, breathing in the spiritual energy around him, slowly and steadily cycling it through his meridians. No shortcuts. No pill explosions. No spiritual squirrels.
Just honest, straightforward qi refinement.
He practiced diligently, avoiding mischief as if his life depended on it. Mostly because it probably did—after the last few incident and kitchen raids, one more mishap and the elders might just "accidentally" assign him to clean dung pits in the beast stables.
Instead, Han Yu put his focus into martial techniques.
His Ironwood Stance, once a laughable posture he only used to confuse enemies, was finally taking shape. With the infusion of qi, the stance reinforced his legs and spine, grounding him like an ancient oak. His defense was noticeably better—he could now block training strikes from a fellow disciple without flying across the courtyard like a tossed cabbage.
The improvement wasn’t dramatic, but it was consistent.
Even his Falling Leaf Strike had grown sharper.
Each sweep of his staff was more fluid, more refined, and when he concentrated qi into the arc, the leaves around him genuinely rustled from the force. No longer just a flashy swing, the strike had matured into something with bite.
"I might not be a master yet," he muttered one morning as he snapped a practice log clean in half, "but I’m definitely not a joke anymore."
He still needed more time, more real combat, and a better staff than the cheap iron broom he had been using since his servant days, but it was progress.
Progress that didn’t explode.
And then, there was the Bolt God Fist.
Han Yu had spent nights under the moonlight practicing the fierce technique. Each punch was loaded with qi, flowing through his arm like a surge of lightning. When he got the timing right, the air popped—thunderclaps rang out from his fists like miniature storms.
It was a far cry from the spectral devastation he’d once witnessed from the Ghostly Man in tattered robes—the original wielder of the Bolt God Fist, whose punch had split a meter thick tree in half—but Han Yu’s version was getting there.
"Still more of a Bolt Apprentice Fist," he joked to himself as a nearby boulder cracked faintly. "But hey, I’ll settle for loud noises and minor property damage."
Of course, the courtyard had begun to accumulate a small pile of ruined training dummies and slightly scorched bushes, but no one had said anything. Probably because he’d left a sign reading "Li Mei’s Failed Pills Testing Area" next to the wreckage.
No one dared investigate after that.
Aside from cultivation, Han Yu also took care of his daily chores and participated in a few sparring matches with other Outer Court disciples. He intentionally kept a low profile during these fights—winning without flair, avoiding dramatic declarations like, "Witness my ultimate technique!"
Still, some couldn’t help but notice his steady improvement.
"Han Yu’s strikes feel different lately," one disciple muttered after a match, massaging his bruised forearm.
"Yeah, and his footwork is better too," another said. "He didn’t trip even once this week."
The rumor mill, sadly, was not nearly as quiet.
"I heard Han Yu is practicing a forbidden art that involves thunderbolts and fried turnips!"
"No, no, he made a pact with a lightning beast. That’s why his hair always looks like that."
Han Yu ignored all of it. The less attention he attracted, the better. He just had to stay focused. One more week, and the mission would begin.
Only once did he almost break the peace—when he discovered someone had stolen his spirit snack buns from the communal pantry.
He nearly invoked a divine trial right then and there.
But, breathing deeply, he remembered his Ironwood Stance and the teachings of restraint.
(Then he left a passive-aggressive note on the pantry wall signed "The Ghost of Yeast Vengeance.")
At night, he would sometimes sit on the roof of his quarters, looking at the stars, wondering what the mission would bring. A lost sword. The Mist Eye Sect. A potentially dangerous battleground.
He didn’t fear the danger.
He feared... the unknown.
Why was that sword so important? Would the Mist Eye Sect still be lurking around? Would it turn into another ambush like last time?
Still, he hardened his resolve. This time, he wouldn’t be caught unprepared.
This time, he had trained.
This time, he had teammates.
And most importantly—this time, he wasn’t a servant with a mop and a sack of cheap rations. He was a proper disciple of the Twin Leaf Peak Sect.
With a sturdy stance.
And fists that boomed like thunder.
Han Yu clenched his fist, the faint echo of a thunderclap crackling in the night.
Soon... he would see what lay beyond the mist.
A couple days later...
The morning sun cast long shadows across the training grounds as Han Yu tightened the straps of his travel bag. It was packed with the essentials—emergency rations, qi-restoring pills from Li Mei, a small pile of vaguely edible "energy biscuits" also gifted by Li Mei (which he dared not consume unless starving), and a small map inked in suspiciously blurry handwriting.
Now all he had to do was to wait for his companions.