59 The Tree Stands

His hand extended towards the damp earth below, fingers spread as he gently pressed his palm against the cool, moist soil. The sensation of wetness seeps into his skin, grounding him and connecting him with the ancient, life-giving essence of the earth. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, drawing in the scent of rich loam and decayed leaves—a fragrance of endless cycles of life, death, and rebirth.

As he channels a slender thread of qi, visualising it as an extension of his will, he focuses on merging this internal energy with the elemental force beneath him. The qi envisioned as a probing tendril of light, emanates from the core of his being, reaching out to intertwine with the earth's essence. Yet, the connection feels tenuous, the qi diffusing too soon, grazing the soil's surface without altering its state, dissipating like vapour caught on the morning breeze.

A flicker of frustration crosses Li Wei's expression, a subtle tightening of his jaw in the face of this setback. 

"The difference between what I've read and what I'm doing... it's like night and day," Li Wei thinks, staring down at the lifeless form before him. "But I'll bridge this gap soon enough." 

Li Wei refocuses, his gaze sharpening. This time, he summons his qi with greater intent, imagining it as a more robust stream, a connection flowing from his core, seeking communion with the earth. The energy extends, touching the ground with a promise of power. A faint shiver travels through the soil, a whisper of potential that teases him before fading. It's a slight improvement, an acknowledgement from the earth, though the spires remain elusive.

Adjusting his stance, Li Wei seeks a deeper connection with the ground beneath him. He delves into his qi reserves, drawing it forth with a stronger conviction. As he exhales, releasing the energy, he guides it with a clear vision, a path carved in his mind's eye that seeks to penetrate the soil. The ground responds with a soft rumble, a sign of contact, yet still, the desired spires do not materialise. Frustration flickers at the edges of his focus, but so does a growing sense of progress.

"What if I just go with it instead of imposing my will against it? It costs me nothing to try," he muses, lighting a spark of curiosity.

This time, his approach is one of partnership rather than domination. He envisions his qi as not an invader but a welcome guest, mingling with the earth's energies. The release of qi this time causes the ground to tremble more noticeably, the earth acknowledging the respect in his technique. Yet, the spires remain just beyond reach, a challenge still to be met.

Li Wei feels the latent energy of the earth around him. With this attempt, he imagines his qi as roots, reaching out for nourishment, intertwining with the essence of the soil. He directs his energy with a fluidity born of this new understanding. The soil stirs, a section of ground swelling as if to birth the spires he commands. It's a moment pregnant with possibility that collapses back into the earth, a near success that sharpens his hunger for mastery.

Li Wei senses the precise moment and place for the spires to emerge. His qi, no longer a mere extension of his will but a vibrant force in its own right, surges forth. He commands the ground to yield, and at last, it obeys. Thin, straight bone growths spear through the soil, a testament to his perseverance and skill. Each spire is a thin line, like a spider's silk protruding from the soil; they aren't that long, and their structure is not so good as they flop and fall.

"Yes, this is it! The density... the sharpness... I can alter it all!"

Li Wei selects a tree on the forest's edge, its presence commanding yet unassuming among its kin. The stalwart oak tree stands tall, its bark rough and grooved, a testament to years of weathering the elements. Its branches stretch upwards, a life network reaching for the sky, leaves rustling softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of the forest.

As he prepares for another attempt, Li Wei mentally rehearses the technique that had eluded him. "Control, not just creation. I need to manipulate these growths as if they were extensions of my own body," he muses, grounding himself in the task. "Let's do this with finesse," he resolves, a silent pledge to merge power with precision.

Kneeling, he places his hand upon the earth, the cool, moist soil greeting his touch. He focuses on the flow of qi, a familiar presence that obeys his inner command, weaving through him with a life of its own. Drawing a deep breath, he channels this force, directing it with renewed purpose.

Knowing that harmony between his qi and the earth's energy is key, he refines his approach further. This time, he envisions his qi as a master sculptor, intent on crafting not just random protrusions but precise, deliberate lines of bone from the earth. He focuses deeply, visualising the qi as it intertwines with the soil's essence, a mutual embrace that seeks to create rather than impose.

The energy he channels now feels different. When he releases it, the ground responds with eager anticipation. There's a profound connection, a sense that he's on the cusp of a breakthrough. 

Under his guidance, bone lines emerge once more, their formation more deliberate, carving through the air with an assured grace. 

The soil reacts with an urgency that mirrors the rapid emergence of bamboo shoots, yet on an almost imperceptible scale, akin to mung bean sprouts unfurling. The ground's surface quivers, then ruptures, as bone lines spear through with astonishing speed, slicing the air as they ascend.

They strike the oak with silent might, a faint echo of contact the only testament to their passage. At first glance, the tree stands unmarred, the attack seemingly ineffectual. Yet, on closer inspection, Li Wei notes the precision of the spires' work: thin lines piercing the trunk, passing cleanly through with ease—sharpness embodied.

Each line, barely wider than a strand of silk, stands as evidence of his growing mastery. This balance of power and finesse marks a significant step in his cultivation journey, a melding of strength with control that few can achieve.

Li Wei notices Lu Huan's wide-eyed gaze, locked onto the newly risen forest of bone spires. His eyes reflect a mix of wonder and something deeper, a recognition of witnessing something far beyond the ordinary. The awe sculpting Lu Huan's features is unmistakable; his mouth slightly agape, breathing momentarily forgotten, as if every spire unveils a new mystery.

This admiration, however, is tinged with a palpable restraint. Lu Huan remains utterly still, his usual restless energy stilled by the magnitude of what he sees. There's a respect in his stance, a hesitancy to step closer, as though an invisible boundary holds him back.

His posture holds a tension, a readiness. It's as though he's caught between the urge to move closer and the instinct to maintain his distance. He doesn't dare interrupt, doesn't dare make a sound, fully aware that he's an observer to a moment of true mastery. 

Li Wei retracts the bone spires, their withdrawal as smooth as their release, and approaches the oak for a closer examination. The tree's bark, where the spires made contact, shows small, almost imperceptible entry points. He peers closer, noting how the sap begins to bead at these punctures—a clear, viscous liquid that speaks of life and resilience. The sap seeps slowly, glistening in the light, the tree's natural response to injury.

Around these fine perforations, the wood is undisturbed, the integrity of the tree holding despite the intrusion. The oak's reaction is muted, its vitality unyielding against the precise incisions. This encounter, a quiet dialogue between cultivator and nature, reveals the depth of his technique's refinement. In its stoic endurance, the tree offers silent acknowledgement of his skill, its sap a sign of life persisting, of wounds that will heal and strengthen over time.

"The tree stands, mostly unharmed. But a person...," he muses. "Should one of these spires pierce a person, it's a different matter entirely. Impalement. They wouldn't last long, and any struggle... it would only make it worse."

Li Wei stands at the forest's edge, his focus sharp, his resolve unyielding. Today, he aims to surpass his previous efforts, to weave a network of bone spires so vast and intricate that it would dwarf anything he has summoned before. He centres himself, feeling the pulse of his qi, now a torrent of energy waiting to be harnessed. With a deep, steadying breath, he reaches deep within, tapping into that reservoir of power.

He fixes his gaze on the stalwart oak, the silent witness to his growth. This time, his ambition stretches further; he envisions a field of bone, a labyrinthine expanse born of his will. The qi flows from him, not as a trickle but as a deluge, channelled with a precision honed through relentless practice.

His hands move with purpose, guiding the unseen forces at his command. The earth responds with a tremor, a prelude to the spectacle unfolding. Bone spires begin their ascent from beneath the soil, emerging like spectres at night. They are slender yet unyielding, their surfaces catching the light, casting long, eerie shadows across the ground.