AN: I did promise.
So, this is primarily a writing exercise. It isn't going to become my main focus, nor is it something I'm going to spend a great deal of time polishing or meticulously plotting. To be completely honest, it's more or less fanfiction, just adapted to a xianxia setting rather than the original, and that's perfectly fine. As I've said before, the goal is to improve my writing and better understand the style and voice I want to develop.
Because of that, a lot of it will probably feel familiar, full of old tropes and well-worn clichés. The story itself is heavily inspired by a famous work (and will likely include elements from more than one), which is intentional because it gives me something concrete to compare against so I can see the differences between how I write and how an author with far more skill approaches the same material. It's a way for me to identify what works, what doesn't, and what I can learn.
I'm posting this now because otherwise I'll keep endlessly tweaking Chapter 1 instead of writing Chapter 2. Once it's out there, I'll have to stop hesitating and move forward.
Also, the only reason it's behind a paywall is because I want to keep it limited to Patreon for now. If I ever feel it's at the point where getting broader feedback would be valuable, I'll probably post it publicly for what it is: a writing exercise. I'm not trying to monetize this: think of it as fanfiction, more than anything else.
With all that said, I'd love to hear what you think.
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Mr. and Mrs. Farrow of Number Seventy-Two, Morphet Lane, Norhollow were happy to say they had a perfect family.
This was not something they said lightly. The Farrows had arrived at their contentment through a great deal of effort. They had three foster children already, and had recently welcomed a fourth. There was room because their eldest was nearly old enough to move out and was busy deciding which college to attend. The new child was shy, somewhat odd, and prone to illness, but that was hardly cause for concern. After all, the Farrows already had three success stories to their name. They were certain that, given enough love, warmth, and patience, this child would become another mark in the win column.
Mr. Farrow owned a chain of hardware shops across Norhollow. He personally managed the largest branch while trusted employees oversaw the east and west locations. A tall, broad-shouldered man, he firmly believed that anyone who had never worked outdoors long enough to develop callouses was probably a wimp. He kept this opinion largely to himself, except on those occasions when he felt it might be useful – which was, his wife would have told you, rather more often than he realized.
Mrs. Farrow had been something of a rebel in her youth. She had spent much of it campaigning for one cause or another, protesting plastic waste one month and advocating for endangered wildlife the next. She had married Mr. Farrow relatively late in life. Loud, fiery, and unapologetically opinionated, she was also fiercely protective of anyone unable to defend themselves.
On paper, they made a perfect couple.
Their children were seventeen-year-old Nathan, who loudly insisted everyone should simply call him eighteen because one month hardly counted; Trisha, who had come from a difficult home and stubbornly refused to call Mr. and Mrs. Farrow anything but Dean and Meghan because, as she frequently reminded everyone, "They're not my real parents." The Farrows had accepted this with tolerant amusement and eventually negotiated a compromise: she could keep the names provided she joined the school track team.
Then there was Nick, who was... difficult. He had an unfortunate habit of seeing things that weren't there–or so everyone said–but he was lovely in his own way, the Farrows insisted. And finally, there was their youngest and newest arrival: Philip, or Phil, who seemed to catch a cold every other month and believed soup, blankets, and being left alone were the only acceptable forms of treatment.
The Farrows had everything they wanted. Their household was large, noisy, chaotic, and occasionally exhausting, but it was also warm, loving, and, in the end, undeniably happy.
When Mr. and Mrs. Farrow woke on an otherwise ordinary Monday morning, there was nothing about the leaden skies or the threat of rain in the air to suggest that their lives were about to be turned upside down. Mr. Farrow happily donned his heavy coat and tucked an umbrella beneath one arm while attempting to ruffle Phil's hair. Phil ducked away with practiced ease and instead asked whether there would be soup for dinner. Trisha, meanwhile, sat perched on the kitchen counter, her head pillowed on her folded arms as she watched Mrs. Farrow cook.
"If it rains," she remarked for perhaps the third time that morning, "track practice will definitely be cancelled."
Nathan would not wake until nine, a habit he had developed recently, much to Mrs. Farrow's despair and Mr. Farrow's disapproval. Nick, on the other hand, chose that moment to clatter down the stairs, his hair still damp from the shower. He was a thin, serious-faced boy who frequently found himself in fights at school. Mr. Farrow was trying to bulk him up, partly to keep him out of trouble and partly because he believed a fifteen-year-old boy ought to have more muscle on him.
"Seen any more people flying around on swords, dork?" Trisha asked with evident delight.
Nick shot her an irritated look but refused to rise to the bait.
"None of that now," admonished Mrs. Farrow, waving her wooden spoon warningly. Trisha subsided at once. "Your sandwich is on the table, dear," Mrs. Farrow added, spooning a generous serving of beans onto Mr. Farrow's plate. Breakfast was eaten quickly and efficiently by everyone except Phil, who was pouting at having been served beans on toast instead of his preferred soup. Mrs. Farrow had deliberately chosen a breakfast that she hoped would leave him clean, so she could only watch in amazement as he somehow managed to splatter half of it over himself and deposit the other half across the table.
At five minutes to eight, a loud honk echoed from the corner of the street, reverberating through the neighborhood. Nick immediately bolted upstairs to fetch his school bag before sprinting for the front door. Trisha, whose classes started an hour later, watched from her chair with a look of immense satisfaction as he dashed outside. At half past nine, Mr. Farrow headed for the door, umbrella in one hand while wrestling his boots on with the other. Mrs. Farrow pecked him on the cheek as he left, provoking exaggerated gagging noises from Phil and an exasperated eye-roll from Trisha.
The muttered "Children, behave," that followed was as much a part of the morning routine as waking up.
Mr. Farrow was still chuckling as he backed his car–a Vauxhall Astra, because he firmly believed in supporting local companies–out of the driveway and set off for work. During the drive, he thought of little beyond the large shipment of power saws he was expecting that morning. As a result, he did not immediately notice the sharp pair of eyes fixed upon him. Those eyes belonged to a woman dressed in robes–actual robes–white and flowing, with impossibly wide sleeves, that looked absurdly out of place among the morning traffic. She was staring at him through the rear-view mirror with an expression of stern disapproval.
Mr. Farrow turned around to check. There was no one in the back seat, of course. Mr. Farrow blinked and glanced at the mirror again. Nothing. The back seat was empty. Traffic rolled steadily forward. As he drove, he checked his mirrors out of habit, watching the cars beside him and behind him. Every reflection appeared perfectly ordinary. There were no stern women in white robes waiting in any of them. By the time he arrived at the store and parked in his reserved space, he had convinced himself he had imagined the entire thing.
Mr. Farrow handled most of his work from a large office attached to the rear of the hardware store. He had long ago hired a dependable young man to manage the sales floor, and after greeting him with a brisk nod and a "Good morning," he retreated to his office, switched on his computer, and began working through his emails. There were plenty of them. Inventory reports, a problem with the stock-tracking system at the east branch, replacement parts for the electric sanders, sales figures, revenue reports, an advertisement for store-management software, and much more besides. Mr. Farrow happily spent the morning sorting through it all–making calls, placing orders, solving problems, and finalizing a large delivery contract.
Shortly before lunch, he received word that the shipment he had been expecting had been delayed. After informing the floor manager that it would arrive later in the day, he decided to treat himself to lunch at the food court halfway down the street. He was walking along the pavement, trying to decide between a burger and a scone, when he spotted the oddest man he had ever seen in his life, staring directly at him. He was short and round, dressed in flowing violet robes and wearing a small hat secured beneath his chin by thin cords. The robes were ridiculous enough on their own, but the hat was somehow worse. It was tiny–barely large enough to cover a third of the man's head–and made him look like an adult who had accidentally wandered outside wearing a child's clothing.
Stranger still, he appeared completely unconcerned by this fact. Instead, he simply stood there, staring at Mr. Farrow. "Er..." Mr. Farrow began.
The man immediately looked away. Mr. Farrow paused for a moment, uncertain what to make of the encounter. Then he remembered that he had work to do and very little time to waste. The strange fellow was promptly dismissed from his mind. After an excellent lunch–he chose the scone and regretted it not at all–Mr. Farrow returned to the store. He had barely settled into his chair when his phone rang. Fishing it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen. The caller was Mrs. Farrow.
She sounded upset. "You'll have to go and fetch Nick from school. He got into another fight."
"Again?" asked Mr. Farrow. His eyes drifted to the work still waiting on his desk. "Er, dear... not to complain, but–"
"I can't do it," Mrs. Farrow interrupted, already guessing what he was about to say. "Phil has barricaded himself in his room under three blankets because I told him there won't be soup for dinner, and I need to go and dig him out."
Mr. Farrow closed his eyes briefly. "All right," he said, both resigned and strangely at peace with it. "I'll go." For a moment, he considered if he dared to mention Nick's medication. Mrs. Farrow's dislike of it was half the reason Nick never got into trouble for forgetting to take it. After a brief internal debate, he decided that no, he did not dare raise the subject after all.
"Good," came her voice. Then, a moment later: "Phil, no! Put down that blanket!"
The line went dead. Mr. Farrow stared at the phone for a second, bemused, before slipping it back into his pocket. He rose and began tidying his desk. Five minutes later, everything was in order. The paperwork was filed away, his umbrella was tucked beneath one arm, and his keys dangled from the other hand. After informing the floor manager that he would be leaving early, he stepped outside. It had not rained all day despite the sky remaining stubbornly grey and threatening. Mr. Farrow hoped it would stay that way until evening.
As he walked toward his car, his thoughts returned to Nick. What had the boy done this time? Mr. Farrow hated being uncharitable, but it was probably another thing Nick claimed to have seen. Last week it had been a crane wearing a hat and walking around on two legs like a person. His thoughts were so scattered that he walked straight into a man standing just next to his car.
"Oh! Sorry," he said sheepishly as the elderly stranger stumbled and nearly fell.
It took him a moment to notice what the man was wearing. Blue robes. Not merely blue robes, but blue robes with sleeves so absurdly wide that the hems nearly brushed the ground. The old man looked furious. His face folded into a thunderous scowl as he steadied himself. Then he fixed Mr. Farrow with a glare and spoke in a booming voice loud enough to make nearby pedestrians turn and stare.
"Hmph. I thought I should take a look for the child’s sake, and this is the treatment I get for descending down to this realm? Mortals will remain mortals. What a joke."
The old man delivered the words with magnificent disdain. Then he gave Mr. Farrow one final dismissive look, turned on his heel, and strode away. Mr. Farrow remained rooted to the pavement. The encounter was so bizarre that his usual response–indignation–failed to materialise. He was fairly certain he had just been insulted. Under normal circumstances, he would have said something back. Instead, he found himself standing there, feeling rattled. A woman in white robes. A man in violet robes. An old man in blue robes talking about realms and mortals. The list of oddities was becoming a little too long to ignore.
Mr. Farrow hurried to his car and climbed inside. As he drove to Nick’s school, he searched for a reasonable explanation. Perhaps there was a convention in town. Yes, that made sense.
By the time he pulled into the driveway of St. John's School for Young and Outgoing Boys, he had almost convinced himself of it. Nick was already at the curb, waiting for him and fuming. The boy barely waited for the car to stop before wrenching open the passenger door, throwing himself into the seat, and slamming it shut hard enough to make the windows rattle. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"What happened?" Mr. Farrow asked.
"...Nothing," Nick muttered, staring out of the window. Mr. Farrow raised an eyebrow, and Nick lasted all of three seconds. "Just Darren and his cronies," he snapped. "They kept going on about how I'm psycho because I said I saw a—" He stopped. His mouth closed. Slowly, he turned to look at Mr. Farrow, who was already looking back at him.
Mr. Farrow pursed his lips, tapping a finger against the steering wheel. "Nick," he said carefully, "do we need to talk about your pills again? We could stop by Dr. McSweeney's on the way home."
"No." It came out almost as a shout. Nick took a breath. "I mean..." His voice dropped. "I'm fine. I don't need them. Please, Dad."
Mr. Farrow studied him for a long moment. Nick's jaw was tight, his shoulders drawn up. Finally, Mr. Farrow nodded. "All right," he said. "If that's what you think."
Nick's shoulders dropped. "But," Mr. Farrow continued, starting the engine, "I've told you before: you can't let people get to you like this. We can't control what other people say, but we can control how we react."
Nick looked down at his hands and said nothing.
"I'm disappointed that you got into another fight. This is already your third disciplinary report this year and if it keeps happening, they'll start talking about suspension."
Nick shifted in his seat. Some of the tension had gone out of his face, replaced by something quieter. After a long silence, he let out a breath. "I know." A pause. Then, quietly: "I'm sorry."
Mr. Farrow didn't reply. Nick stared out of the window for a few seconds before adding, almost to himself, "I'll try not to get into any more fights."
Mr. Farrow nodded. "Good." The car pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic. Neither of them noticed the woman in white robes standing across the street, watching them leave. When they pulled into the driveway of Number Seventy Two, Morphet Lane, both of them were still quiet. Mr. Farrow had spent most of the journey thinking about the fight and what, precisely, ought to be done about it, while Nick himself had spent the drive staring out of the window and, at intervals, squeezing his eyes shut in the hope that unconsciousness might take the hint. He was looking forward to lying down in his room.
Those hopes were instantly dashed as Mr. Farrow nodded toward the garden shed beside the house. "Grab a sander and get started on one of the planks. I'll let your mum know we're back."
Nick groaned. "Do I have to?"
Mr. Farrow was unmoved. "Yes. No dinner until you've sanded a plank smooth." He paused, and then added. "Besides, it's good exercise."
Nick did not look convinced, but got out of the car and went to the shed. Shaking his head, Mr. Farrow let himself into the house, set his umbrella by the door, and went in search of his wife. Mrs. Farrow, as it happened, had endured a thoroughly exhausting day, a fact she communicated while simultaneously attempting to prepare dinner, supervise Phil, and keep track of Trisha's whereabouts. Phil had eventually emerged from the fortress of blankets he had constructed around himself, but only after extracting a promise that his favorite meal would be served tomorrow. Nathan, meanwhile, had spent much of the afternoon on the telephone, laughing loudly one moment and dropping into suspiciously hushed whispers the next whenever she happened to walk past. Trisha, whose classes had been cancelled for the day, had lingered nearby throughout all of this, claiming complete disinterest while very obviously listening in.
Mr. Farrow listened sympathetically while hanging up his coat. More than once, he considered mentioning the peculiar encounters he had experienced during the day. The woman in white robes staring at him through the rearview mirror. The rotund man in violet robes who had stood in the street watching him. The elderly fellow in blue robes. Yet the longer he stood in his own kitchen, surrounded by familiar voices and familiar complaints, the more absurd the whole business seemed.
So instead he told Mrs. Farrow about Nick's fight and the punishment he had assigned. She nodded approvingly. "I think that's sensible," she said. "He has too much energy at the best of times. It'll do him good and give him something else to think about."
Mr. Farrow agreed. The boy spent far too much time brooding as it was.
The couple spent the remainder of the afternoon marshalling the children into something resembling order. Phil was settled at the kitchen table and kept occupied with the television. Trisha had been instructed to lay the dinner table, partly because it needed doing and partly because Mrs. Farrow had learned from experience that idle Trishas tended to become troublesome Trishas. Nathan had been ordered off the telephone and sent upstairs to "put on a proper shirt" before dinner. Nick, meanwhile, had finally been released from the shed after an hour had passed and Mr. Farrow had inspected his handiwork, deciding that sufficient progress had been made and that the boy had not merely spent sixty minutes finding new and inventive ways to avoid work.
By five o'clock, the entire family had assembled in the living room. Mrs. Farrow entered carrying two cups of tea, one of which she handed to her husband before settling into her chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Everyone's attention soon drifted toward the television, which was displaying a whimsical program about a stuffed blue sock embarking on adventures with a rubber duck. Phil watched with complete fascination, clutching his favorite blanket beneath his chin and staring at the screen without blinking. The others were significantly less captivated by the exploits of the sock and duck, but endured them with patient good grace.
Perhaps that was why none of them heard the sound of flapping. It began faintly somewhere beyond the house. It was a low, heavy sound, as though enormous sheets of leather were being snapped through the air. Gradually it grew louder, approaching from somewhere overhead. No one inside noticed. Nor, it seemed, did anyone outside. A neighbour hurrying home along the pavement, mobile phone pressed to his ear, failed to glance upward even once. He did not notice the vast shadow passing over him, just as he did not notice the shape descending from the clouds.
What emerged from the grey evening sky was, quite unmistakably, a giant flying pig. It was pink, round, and alarmingly heavy-looking. Its ears had stretched into vast wing-like appendages that beat the air in powerful, uneven strokes. They appeared to be working tremendously hard merely to keep the creature airborne. Rather than flying with any elegance, the pig waddled through the sky, buoyed upward by stubborn determination and several flagrant violations of common sense. Then, with surprising suddenness, it dropped. The creature landed in the middle of the street with a weighty thump that ought to have startled every person within hearing distance.
No one reacted. An elderly woman peering through a narrow gap in her curtains remained entirely focused on observing the widower who lived opposite. A cyclist pedaled past without turning his head. A pair of children walked by discussing homework. Not one of them spared so much as a glance for the enormous winged pig occupying the road. The pig, however, was not alone. Strapped to its back was a saddle, and seated upon that saddle was a man who looked, in every conceivable respect, like a pig that had somehow acquired human form.
He was enormous like a barrel: broad, round, and apparently composed almost entirely of circumference. His robes strained alarmingly across his middle, the seams pulled so taut that they seemed to be engaged in a desperate struggle for survival. His face was equally spherical, pink and fleshy, with soft folds gathered beneath his chin and along his cheeks. Above his upper lip curled a thin rat-tail moustache, while a similarly sparse goatee protruded from somewhere beneath what appeared to be his third chin. This man’s name was Baobun.
For a moment he remained seated, surveying Number Seventy-Two, Morphet Lane with grave concentration. Then, he slid carefully down from the saddle, patting the pig fondly on its flank. “Thanks, Porky.”
The pig–Porky–responded with a loud, indignant oink.
The round man turned to look at it. "What?" he asked, puzzled.
Porky oinked again, this time with considerably more emphasis.
Baobun frowned. "No, your name is not the Auspicious Nine Heavens Vermilion Cloud Swine. Get over it."
The pig produced another offended noise, but before it could continue its complaint, Baobun gave its flank a firm slap. The creature grumbled under its breath and fell silent.
The lights of Number Seventy-Two still shone warmly through the windows. One room upstairs remained illuminated where somebody had evidently forgotten to switch the light off. Through a gap in the curtains, Baobun caught occasional glimpses of movement within the house: shadows crossing rooms, figures passing through doorways, the ordinary bustle of family life. He watched for a few moments, then abruptly slapped both his cheeks. "Right. Right. Game face on. Game face on." He shook himself vigorously, like a dog emerging from a pond. His cheeks and several other portions of his anatomy continued wobbling for a few seconds after the rest of him had stopped.
Straightening his robes, he set off toward the house. He had almost reached the front door and was raising one hand to knock when another oink sounded behind him. Baobun spun around. "What?" he demanded with ill grace. Porky merely stared, its large brown eyes fixed upon him with a look that was, somehow, both patient and deeply disappointed. Baobun stared back. For several seconds, neither of them moved. Then understanding dawned.
Baobun’s eyes widened. "The Transformation Talisman!" he exclaimed. A loud slap echoed through the street as he smacked his own forehead. "Of course. How could I forget?" He exhaled heavily. "Whew. That would have been embarrassing." Looking back at the pig, he pointed a grateful finger. "You saved me there, buddy."
Porky released an oink that sounded remarkably like the weary sigh of a long-suffering man. Baobun, oblivious to the criticism, plunged both pudgy hands into the depths of his robes. After a moment of fishing around, his face lit up. "Aha!" Triumphantly, he withdrew a narrow strip of paper. The talisman was roughly the length of his palm and half as wide. Strange characters had been painted across its surface in bold, flowing brushstrokes. The ink seemed almost alive, and as the paper shifted beneath the streetlights, the black markings caught the light and gleamed for a moment with an amber-gold sheen before darkening once more.
Baobun regarded it with immense satisfaction. "Now," he said, "let's try this again."
He pressed the talisman against his face, and his form shimmered. His robes seemed to fold inward upon themselves, colors shifting and darkening. The little cap atop his head lengthened and broadened. A briefcase appeared beneath one arm. A moment later, where a rotund man in robes had stood, there now stood an equally rotund man in a neatly pressed three-piece suit. Baobun adjusted a cuff and inspected himself critically. The briefcase received an experimental heft, as though he were confirming that it behaved like an ordinary briefcase should. Apparently satisfied, he nodded.
Then he turned and walked up the path. Reaching the front door, he raised a hand and knocked. The sounds of the television from inside the house abruptly ceased and a moment later came the clatter of movement, followed by approaching footsteps. The door opened a crack.
"Yes?" asked Mrs. Farrow inquisitively.
Baobun's small cap had become a respectable bowler hat. He doffed it and inclined his head politely. "Madam," he said, "I am here in regard to a Mr. Nick Wright. Might he happen to reside at this address?"
Mrs. Farrow blinked. Behind her, someone in the house called, "Who is it?"
Turning slightly, she raised her voice and replied, "He says he's here for Nick. Dean, come and see."
While she was distracted, Baobun attempted to edge a little closer to the doorway. Unfortunately, Mrs. Farrow appeared to possess the instincts of a castle gatekeeper and immediately shifted her position so that the opening remained exactly the same size as before.
"Might we discuss this inside?" Baobun asked, trying again. "What I have to say is rather sensitive."
Mrs. Farrow ignored the request entirely, and instead fixed upon him a look of such pointed suspicion that he immediately abandoned the effort. A few moments later, there was another clatter from deeper inside the house, and Mr. Farrow appeared behind her. Tall, broad-shouldered, and solidly built, he filled the doorway rather effectively. "You're here for Nick?" he asked, sounding thoroughly confused. "Mr...?"
"Baobun," said Baobun promptly.
Mr. Farrow's expression did not become any less puzzled. "Right," he said after a moment. "And what exactly is this about?"
Baobun took a deep breath. As it happened, he had spent most of the journey rehearsing for this very moment. Several dozen versions of the speech had been delivered to Porky, who had shown little appreciation for any of them. By the time he had reached the doorstep, Baobun had been feeling rather pleased with his preparations. Drawing himself up, he launched into it. "I represent one of the finest academies on the planet. We have been observing Mr. Wright for some time now, and we believe he is uniquely suited to join our institution and benefit from the education we provide. If you have a few moments to spare, I would be delighted to explain the particulars. This is an extraordinary opportunity, that may quite literally be described as one in several million."
When he finished, there was a brief silence. Mr. and Mrs. Farrow exchanged a quick glance and then continued to stare at him, neither of them appearing especially convinced. Finally, Mr. Farrow said, "You're from a school?"
"No," said Baobun, and then immediately regretted it. The word had come out before he'd managed to stop it. He hurried on. "I mean–not exactly. I represent an academy. There is a distinction."
"What sort of distinction?" asked Mrs. Farrow dubiously.
Baobun opened his mouth, and then closed it again. The distinction was, he was discovering, rather more difficult to explain to someone who did not already understand it than he had previously appreciated.
Mr. Farrow folded his arms, his patience visibly thinning. "Look," he said, "are you sure you've got the right address?"
"Oh, absolutely." Baobun nodded vigorously. "No mistake whatsoever. Nick Wright. Fifteen years old. Foster child. Brown hair. Habit of seeing things other people don't. Frequent disciplinary issues. Lives at Number Seventy-Two, Morphet Lane."
The Farrows exchanged another glance, this one less skeptical than before. Baobun immediately sensed that he was making progress, and promptly abandoned the prepared speech entirely. "Look, may I please come inside?" he begged. "Please. This will be much easier to explain indoors. I can answer your questions properly and provide evidence." He hesitated, then added earnestly, "This is not a scam." His hand rose to gesture toward his face. "You can tell that by simply looking at me."
He smiled earnestly, his cheeks puffing out on either side of his face, round and shiny pink. For some reason, this did not appear to reassure them. Mr. and Mrs. Farrow exchanged another long look. At last, Mr. Farrow sighed and stepped aside. "Might as well," he muttered.
Baobun brightened immediately. As he crossed the threshold, he saw three heads duck behind the dining room wall with considerable speed.
Mrs. Farrow closed the door. "So what school did you say this was, exactly?"
"Toadroot Academy," said Baobun proudly, "the finest institute on any plane. And the headmaster is a Nas-" He was interrupted by two voices in rapid succession.
“I am sorry – did you say Toadroot?” cut in Mr. Farrow, before he too, was silenced in turn by the volume of his wife’s shout.
"TRISHA ABIGAIL HANNESGRASSER, STEP OUT FROM BEHIND THAT WALL RIGHT NOW."
There was a brief, undignified scuffle. Someone hissed and someone else responded in a furious whisper. Then Trisha stumbled out from behind the wall, her hand locked in a death grip around a fistful of Nathan's shirt. Nathan followed, pulled along not by choice, and making a sustained and fruitless effort to prise her fingers loose. Behind them, attempting to remain very still in the apparent belief that this made them invisible, stood Phil and Nick, undone, in the end, by Phil's blanket trailing silently across the floor, caught on Nathan's foot.
A silence fell over the hallway. Mrs. Farrow drew herself up to her full height. Mr. Farrow took one look at her face and turned to the children. "You know better than to eavesdrop when we have guests. All of you, upstairs now. There will be no more television tonight." His tone left no room for negotiation. One by one, the children trooped up the stairs, Phil still clutching his blanket.
Baobun cleared his throat. Mr. and Mrs. Farrow both startled, as though they had briefly forgotten he was there. He cleared his throat again. "Um," he said, glancing sidelong at Mrs. Farrow, "could Nick stay? Since this does rather concern him."
On the stairs, Nick stopped and turned around. A matter concerning him? His thoughts went immediately to the fight at school, and just as immediately he found himself looking back up the stairs with some longing. But Mr. and Mrs. Farrow were already gesturing for him to come down and Mrs. Farrow's expression said, very clearly, that he had better be on his best behavior from now on, or else. Nick stomped down the remaining stairs with feeling, wondering whether it had been Darren who had complained and regretting, not for the first time, that he hadn't followed through on his plan to lock him in the toilet.
There was no time for further wishful thinking. The Farrows settled onto the living room sofa, and Baobun lowered himself into the armchair with a long, satisfied sigh, leaving Nick the ottoman. The Farrows looked at Baobun expectantly and Baobun beamed back, the folds of his face moving with considerable enthusiasm.
"Right," he said, "as I was saying, I am Baobun and this is an educational visit on behalf of the finest academy you will find anywhere on this planet, the Toadroot Academy of–" He stopped. Something in the Farrows' skeptical expressions gave him pause. "Er. Yes. We can come back to that. Since Nick is here, do you mind if I confirm a few things first?"
Neither of the Farrows looked entirely happy about this tangent, but they said nothing. Baobun turned to Nick, a light sweat gathering at his temples. "Just to confirm a few things," he said. "You reported seeing two people flying on swords above your school building about a year ago. And a flying snake the size of a school bus two months after that. Then a man floating on a giant lotus during the school trip to the–"
He didn't finish. Nick was on his feet. "I'm not insane." His voice came out sharp and cracked at the edges, and his eyes moved wildly between Baobun and the Farrows. "I'm not. You told him?" He turned to his foster parents, his voice climbing. "An academy – I am not going to the madhouse, I told you, I told you I wasn't–"
"Nick – nobody said that, nobody thinks that – Dean, tell him–"
But Mr. Farrow was already on his feet. He crossed the room in three strides, and when he spoke his voice was very quiet, which was considerably worse than shouting for him. "I don't know who sent you or what you think you know," he said dangerously, "but I'll ask you to be very careful about what you say next. Nick is a perfectly normal child, and I won't have anyone coming into my home and suggesting otherwise. ARE WE CLEAR?" The last two words were not quiet at all. They cut straight across Mrs. Farrow's attempts to reach Nick, who had stopped shouting and was standing very still, his jaw tight, staring at the floor.
Baobun pressed himself as far back into the armchair as his considerable circumference would allow. His eyes were wide and spinning in their sockets as he tried to work out, with some urgency, how things had devolved so quickly. "No – no – you have the wrong – I didn't mean –" He was already reaching up to mop the sweat from his forehead, which had begun beading industriously across his shiny skin, when his hand connected – squarely – with the Transformation Talisman still pressed there and knocked it to the side. The narrow strip of paper spun free, tumbled once, and settled on the carpet. The shimmer that followed was brief and quiet, and yet, extremely conspicuous.
Mr. Farrow watched with his mouth agape as the man he was advancing on went from wearing a sensible three piece business suit to a robe – with voluminous sleeves – and tiny hat. His girth, already extremely conspicuous, became even more pronounced in this state, like a pink beach ball stuffed into clothes. Mrs. Farrow made a sharp sound and instinctively pulled Nick behind her, who had gone had gone from shouting to staring and now wore an expression of profound bewilderment.
The silence lasted a few seconds. Then Baobun straightened in the chair, suddenly finding his courage. He seized the chance, looking at Nick – past Mr. Farrow's expression, past Mrs. Farrow's grip on the boy’s shoulder – and his voice, when it came, came out steadier than before.
“Nick,” he said, doing his best to lock eyes with the boy even as the family stared at him in stupefaction. “You are not insane.” He paused before delivering the next words. “You are a cultivator.”
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AN 2: Should I have just titled it "Yer a wizard, Harry!"? Or would that have been a bit too on the nose?
Writing like an omniscient narrator is genuinely difficult. Fortunately, every chapter from here onward shifts to a single-character POV, which I'm much more comfortable writing and is also closer to the style of the original.
As for the changes, that's very much the point. Right now, I'm treating this like riding a bicycle with training wheels. Having the original as a point of comparison gives me useful guardrails while I focus on improving my prose, pacing, and characterization.
Eventually, though, the story will diverge completely from the original plot. That's when the real writing exercise begins. At that point, I'll find out whether I can maintain an engaging style without relying on the framework of an existing story. If I can, great; that means I've learned something. If not, it's back to the drawing board and more practice.
Either way, I'm having fun with it. Cheers!