The opportunity came during a senior disciple's demonstration. Senior Disciple Han, eager to reassert his authority after Lee Jin's puzzling display, was showcasing the 'Moonlight Step' for the newer outer disciples. It was a foundational movement art, creating brief, gliding bursts of speed by ejecting qi from the soles of the feet.
Han moved across the training yard in short, swift dashes, leaving faint afterimages in the hazy afternoon light. It was crude, but to the novices, it looked like magic.
Lee Jin, hauling a basket of laundry to the washing stones, paused at the edge of the yard. He kept his head down but his eyes, and his system, locked onto Han.
[Target: Senior Disciple Han]
- Skill Detected: Moonlight Step (Proficient)
[Copying...]
The knowledge flooded in: the specific meridian pathways in the legs, the precise compression of qi in the foot's "Bubbling Spring" point, the explosive yet controlled release. It was a formula for momentary flight.
[Copy Complete: 'Moonlight Step' (Proficient)]
That night, in his ravine, Lee Jin tried it. He focused, channeling his meager qi down his legs. He pushed off.
He didn't glide. He lurched. The force was misapplied, sending him stumbling five feet forward before tripping over a root and sprawling into the creek. The icy water soaked him instantly.
He sat up, sputtering. The skill was there in his mind, perfect. But his control, his qi reserves, his physical understanding—all were lacking. He'd gotten the blueprint for a carriage, but he only had the strength of a donkey.
For days, he practiced in secret, his attempts resulting in more stumbles than steps. He was trying to sprint before he could reliably walk. The system gave him the destination, but the journey—the grueling, iterative practice—was still his alone.
Frustration mounted until he remembered Granny Luo's salve and the dumpling. Patience. Foundations. He stopped trying to step and started trying to feel. He sat by the creek, focusing not on movement, but on circulating qi to the soles of his feet and holding it there, feeling the pressure build and release without moving a muscle.
It was boring. It was meticulous. It was progress.
A week later, chased by a sudden downpour back from the herb garden, Lee Jin instinctively pushed qi to his feet as he leaped over a widening puddle.
The world blurred for a half-second. He cleared the puddle with an extra three feet of distance, landing with uncharacteristic grace on the slippery path.
He stood in the rain, heart pounding. It wasn't a Moonlight Step. It was a flicker. A shadow of one.
But it was his. And for the first time, the gap between the copied knowledge and his own ability didn't feel like a chasm. It felt like a distance he could, step by stolen step, cross.