Robert clenched his left hand tightly, guarding the six energy nodes from any intrusion. The dozen streams of warmth coursing through him grew ever more searing, like molten iron branding its way along his veins, until at last they converged at his throat.
A ragged gasp tore from his lips.
It felt as though his throat were about to burst. Just as the pain reached an unbearable peak, a sudden coolness bloomed there—a crystalline chill that spread outward from the root of his tongue. It swept through his mouth and throat, then slowly unfurled into every joint of his body.
Donald's eyes shone with delight. "Now you should feel a cool current at the base of your tongue—that is the divine power long dormant within you, now awakened. Robert, guide that coolness to the joints beneath our hands, and let it linger there. Henceforth, the strength sealed in those places will be yours to summon at will."
Obediently, Robert directed the chill outward, storing it in every part of his body. A wave of exhilaration surged through him. His throat tickled, and before he could restrain himself, he roared, "Break!"
Concentric ripples of sound, dense and palpable, exploded outward from him. Desks rattled, instruments toppled, and even the walls of the training hall quivered thrice over. Were it not for Donald and the professors straining to suppress the resonance, the hall might well have collapsed.
Donald's face lit with astonishment at the sheer force of the sound. "Professors, by the destructive power of that cry, the divine energy we have drawn forth has elevated him an entire rank—from mere mortal to the next tier!"
Robert's heart pounded wildly. "Dean, am I truly a Second-Rank Disciple now?"
Donald chuckled with satisfaction. "Indeed. You now stand at the very first level of the second rank. And remember, the divine power within you has only just begun to awaken—your potential is far from spent. Ha-ha!"
Laughter burst from him, colored with relief. Ever since Michel's merciless decree, Donald had lived with gnawing uncertainty. Robert's innate blessing was undeniable, but how much power his body concealed, and whether it could be coaxed into his command, no one could say. History had seen prodigies brimming with latent force who nevertheless failed to summon a spark of it.
Yet the proof was now before them. Robert's reserves were vast, and—most crucially—responsive.
Donald's face paled, his brow damp with sweat. Still he forced a smile. "Enough for today. The awakening must proceed in careful stages. What you have achieved now is more than sufficient. Release him, everyone. Robert, the remainder of your strength will be drawn forth gradually over the next three months."
A dazed sense of unreality swept over Robert. Could it truly be so easy—to step into the First Degree of the Second Rank? Such progress, for others, demanded years, even with excellent talent and training.
Donald produced a parchment covered in syllables and pressed it into Robert's hands. "Nephew, the Celestial Sound requires a tongue and throat of great agility to articulate its myriad tones and techniques. Here is a chart of syllables I prepared for you. Practice them diligently, and soon you shall command the divine voice with ease."
Wiping his brow, Donald instructed Robert to remain in the training hall overnight, studying theory and practicing articulation. He and the other elders sat aside, both to oversee him and to answer any questions.
Leafing through the tomes on divine power, Robert's brow arched and a sly grin crept across his face.
Divine energy was divided into seven ranks, each with its own signs and meanings.
The First Rank—Acolytes—symbolized mortals chosen by the gods, granted initial blessings: heightened strength, speed, and vitality, with lifespans twice that of ordinary men.
The Second Rank—Disciples, Robert's own station—marked those whose devotion had been acknowledged by the gods. Their power extended beyond the body, manifesting outward as visible phenomena. Robert's sound wave was but one such sign.
The Third Rank—Guardians—represented might sufficient to defend divine glory itself. Ascension to Guardian meant unrivaled prowess among mortals, and their hallmark—the Divine Field—was the signature of a true champion.
…
Robert had studied these precepts for six years, and they were etched into memory. He soon set the text aside and turned to the syllable chart.
Yet as he contemplated his practice, a torrent of alien knowledge welled unbidden into his mind. To his astonishment, it was a fragment of Ya'er's shared memories, from that distant cerulean planet. Oriental Martial Arts, Sound Techniques: Lion's Roar, Roaring Fist, Heavenly Demon Lyric…
Script after script spiraled through his thoughts. Robert's heart quickened with awe. These arts, though not inherently greater than the divine mysteries of this world, had been annotated by Ya'er's hand: "The flaws of Lion's Roar are thus… perfected as follows… Revised cultivation method for the flawless version…"
She had not only gathered a trove of techniques but, with her boundless intellect, refined them into near perfection. What filled Robert's mind now was nothing less than the universe's most consummate martial lore.
Most extraordinary of all—where once these arts had required arcane energies or inner force, Ya'er's revisions made them wholly compatible with divine power. He could wield them as his own.
Robert's hands trembled with excitement. Turning aside to avoid the elder overseeing theory, he quietly probed the nascent energy within him, all the while ravenous for the combat secrets unfolding in his mind. At length he fixed upon one passage that seemed to harmonize with his body:
Azure Dragon, soaring across the Nine Heavens, its clear song sways sun and moon. To mimic its cry and pursue the celestial orbs—this is the Five Forms of the Dragon's Chant.
Robert stared, entranced, as the words coiled before his inner vision. At the height of his wonder, a resonant tone welled up from his throat and spilled forth unbidden.
He hastily forced the sound back, stifling the chant. With a furtive glance, he saw Donald and the others engaged in quiet conversation, oblivious. Relief washed over him. For if he, newly advanced, had already displayed so exalted a martial art—there would be no end of questions he could never answer.