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BLACKSTONE ARC
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The village of Blackstone clung to the base of Mount Qingcheng like a forgotten shadow, its weathered homes huddled together as though seeking solace from the mountain's looming presence. The rooftops sagged, moss crept up their stone walls like the weary hands of time itself. Narrow dirt paths wove between the dwellings, their uneven grooves carved by countless trudging feet—a silent testimony to a life spent enduring rather than living.
Overhead, the sky hung heavy with gray clouds, the promise of rain dulling the faint rays of sunlight that dared to reach the earth. The air smelled of damp soil and ash, carrying a chill that bit into the villagers’ skin as they moved about their work. A boy stumbled under the weight of a burlap sack brimming with grain, his thin arms trembling as he struggled to balance the load.
An elder, her back stooped and hands calloused from decades of toil, wordlessly stepped forward to adjust the boy's burden. Her gnarled fingers moved deftly, but her lips remained pressed in a thin line, offering neither comfort nor complaint. Around them, other villagers worked in silence, their movements mechanical, their faces marked with reluctant acceptance.
At the heart of the square, a faded banner bearing the emblem of the Qingcheng Sect flapped weakly in the wind. Its once proud colors were muted, threads unraveling like the spirit of the people it ruled over. The banner’s presence was a silent reminder of the mountain's dominion, the weight of its authority pressing down on every head that dared to lift itself too high.
From behind a stack of firewood near the village's communal hall, a young boy crouched, his black eyes taking in the scene. Hei Tianmo’s lips curled into a faint sneer as he watched the villagers toil. Their silent submission gnawed at something deep inside him, stirring a frustration he didn’t yet have the words to name.
"Is this what life is here?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the distant sound of a hammer striking wood. "To struggle in silence while the mountain takes everything?"
His gaze shifted to the hall, where the muffled voices of the Hei Clan elders filtered out into the damp air. He crept closer, his footsteps light and precise, as if the very earth conspired to keep his presence a secret.
All they ever do is talk.
His heart pounding with equal parts frustration and anticipation.
Just once, I want to see someone fight back.
The shadow of the mountain loomed over him, indifferent yet suffocating. And yet, deep within him, something stirred—a storm of rebellion waiting to be unleashed.
The voices of the elders seeped through the thin walls, low and tense, a familiar cadence of worry laced with resignation.
“The Sect is demanding more again,” Elder Ping muttered, his fingers kneading his temples as if trying to massage away the stress of the problem. “We’ve already emptied the stores. How are we supposed to meet their demands and survive the winter?”
Elder Guang, his scowl permanently etched into his weathered face, crossed his arms tightly. "And what do you suggest? Shall we refuse and invite the Sect’s wrath? Perhaps you’d like to explain our ‘shortcomings’ to their emissaries when they come to collect."
From outside, Tianmo’s grin widened as he pressed himself closer to the cool wooden wall of the hall, crouching low to stay hidden. Mischievous energy buzzed beneath his skin, but something about their words made his chest tighten. His fingers brushed the small pouch tied to his waist.
"Refuse?" Ping’s hand slammed on the table, rattling the teapot. "Don’t twist my words, Guang. I’m saying we can’t keep this up! Every season, it’s more demands and fewer resources to meet them."
Elder Ren, the quietest of the group, finally spoke, his voice a dry rasp. "Perhaps we should petition for leniency. A letter explaining the situation. It’s possible they’ll—"
"Petition?!" Guang interrupted, his voice rising sharply. "And admit our weakness? The Sect doesn’t grant mercy! They exploit it! You want to send them a letter, Ren? Might as well write our own death warrants while you’re at it."
Ren frowned but didn’t argue. The tension in the room thickened as the elders lapsed into silence, their eyes drifting toward the empty chair at the corner, the one that had once belonged to Hei Fang.
Ping’s voice softened, the weight of loss creeping into his tone. "If only Fang were still with us... he might have found a way."
Tianmo’s heart clenched at the mention of his father. The village spoke of him like a ghost, a cautionary tale of failure. To Tianmo, he was none of those things.
They’re just as scared as everyone else. Cowards.
His gaze darted toward the steaming teapot sitting on the low table inside the hall, its spout curling upward like an open invitation. A wide smile stretched across his face as an idea sparked. Slipping around the side of the building, he moved like a shadow, his small frame disappearing into the back kitchen.
From his pouch, Tianmo pulled out a handful of pepper seeds, the sharp, pungent scent already teasing his nose. “A little spice to warm their bones,” he muttered to himself, stifling a chuckle. Moving quickly, he sprinkled the seeds into the teapot and gave it a few deliberate stirs with a wooden spoon.
Satisfied, he crept back to his hiding spot behind the woodpile, crouching low as he peered through a crack, his eyes watching the scene unfold.
Inside, the elders continued their debate.
Ping shook his head, his voice tinged with desperation. "I’m telling you, we’re at our limit. We can’t squeeze blood from a stone. If we keep this up, the village will collapse under the weight of these demands."
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"And what would you have us do?" Guang snapped, his voice like flint against steel. "Challenge the Sect? March up to their gates and demand better treatment? You think they’ll be moved by our pleas?"
Ping sighed, his hand waving dismissively. "Enough, Guang. Let’s not tear at each other. Drink some tea and clear your head. We’ll need our wits about us to face this."
The elders murmured their agreement, each reaching for their cup.
Tianmo bit down on his knuckles, his eyes sparkling with anticipation as Ping took the first sip. The elder froze mid-swallow, his eyes widening as he clutched his throat.
"What in the heavens—?" Ping croaked, his voice strangled.
Guang, halfway through his own sip, let out a bellowing cough, spraying tea across the table. "Poison! It’s poison!" he roared, stumbling back from his seat and clutching his chest.
Ren sniffed his cup cautiously, his lips twitching. "No... not poison. It’s... spicy." He took another tentative sip, his face contorting in discomfort. "Who would put this in tea?!"
Ping’s face turned bright red as he fanned his mouth, gasping. "It’s fire—it’s burning my soul! My tongue is going to fall off!"
Guang slammed his cup onto the table, his voice cracking with panic. "The Sect has sent assassins! They’re testing our resolve with—argh, my throat!"
The chaos erupted further as Ping stumbled to the water jug, gulping it down in one breath. Guang flailed about, fanning his mouth with both hands, while Ren sat quietly, his grimace deepening with each cautious sip of the tea.
From behind the firewood, Tianmo doubled over, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Tears streamed down his face as he watched the elders sputter and flounder like fish out of water.
This is better than I could’ve imagined!
But just as he was about to shift to a more comfortable crouch, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
He froze, his heart sinking as a familiar voice cut through the chaos.
"Hei Tianmo."
He turned slowly, his grin faltering as he met his mother’s sharp gaze. Hei Meili’s arms were crossed, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"How many times do I have to tell you," she said, her tone low and dangerous, "you can’t keep causing trouble like this."
Tianmo gulped, his mischievous grin reappearing, a bit weaker. "Must’ve been the wind," he said innocently.
Meili raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching. "Oh, really? And does the wind carry pepper seeds in its pockets?"
"Maybe it does," Tianmo said, shrugging. "Nature’s full of surprises."
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Tianmo winced as Meili’s firm grip on his ear steered him through the misty paths of Blackstone Village. “Ow, ow, ow, Ma not so hard!” he yelped, his voice rising above the distant screams of the elders, which faded into the steady patter of rain against the rooftops.
“You think this is funny, don’t you?” Meili said, her tone a mix of frustration and weariness, her grip finally easing.
Tianmo rubbed the back of his head as soon as she released him, his grin returning despite himself. “It was a little funny,” he muttered with a sheepish chuckle, trying to gauge if her expression would soften.
Meili stopped abruptly, turning to face him. Her gaze pierced through him, though the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement. "You think making fools out of the elders helps anyone?"
"I didn’t hurt them," Tianmo protested, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Just woke them up a bit. They need it."
Meili sighed, shaking her head. She continued walking, her steps slower this time. Tianmo trailed behind her, his eyes catching the faint slump in her shoulders.
For the first time that day, the burden of his mischief pressed against his chest. He had been so caught up in the thrill of his prank that he hadn’t thought about what it might cost her.
She works so hard. All I do is cause trouble. Is this really helping her?
His gaze dropped to the muddy path beneath his feet.
They reached their modest home, its worn wooden walls streaked with rain. The faint glow of an oil lamp shone through the small window, casting long shadows onto the damp ground. Meili stepped inside, her movements tired yet precise, and began lighting the hearth.
Tianmo lingered in the doorway, his fingers tightening on the frame. "I’m sorry," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
Meili glanced over her shoulder, her expression softening. "Come inside," she said gently, brushing damp hair from her face. "You’ll catch a chill standing there."
Tianmo hesitated before stepping in, the warmth of the fire enveloping him. He watched as Meili moved to the kitchen, her hands steady as she began slicing a radish. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the small room, a soothing counterpoint to the rain outside.
"You’re always sorry after the fact," Meili said, her tone lighter now. "But trouble follows you like a shadow, Momo."
Tianmo plopped onto the wooden floor, resting his chin on his hands. "It’s not like I do it on purpose," he said, his grin faint. "Well, most of the time."
Meili smirked, shaking her head. "Most of the time, he says." She added the radish slices to a pot of thin rice porridge bubbling over the fire.
The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional pop of the fire and the patter of rain against the roof. Tianmo watched her work, the quiet rhythm of her movements strangely comforting.
"Teach me how to do that," he said suddenly.
Meili raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. "Do what?"
"Turn scraps into something good," Tianmo said, gesturing to the pot. "You’re like a magician, Ma. You take nothing and make it taste better than anything the elders eat."
Her smirk returned, tinged with amusement. "Flattery will get you nowhere. You’ve tried this trick before."
"But it’s true!" Tianmo pressed, "Teach me. I want to learn how to make something out of nothing. Maybe I'll become a famous chef."
"You mean a famous pest," Meili quipped, turning back to the pot. "You'd just turn the kitchen into a mess!"
Tianmo sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "A mess could be—delicious?"
Meili rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. "I could also turn you into food if you keep pestering me."
"See? A magician," Tianmo said, his grin widening.
Meili turned back to the pot, stirring slowly. "You already know how, Momo," she said quietly. "It’s what you do every day, turning trouble into laughter."
Tianmo blinked, surprised by her words. "That’s... not the same."
"No," Meili agreed, her voice soft. "But it’s a start."
Dinner was simple—two bowls of porridge, the faint aroma of radish filling the room. Tianmo frowned when he saw Meili’s portion, smaller than his own.
"Why do you always do that?" he asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Meili looked up, her expression calm. "Do what?"
"Take the smaller portion," Tianmo said, his grip tightening around his bowl. "You think I don’t notice, but I do. It’s not fair."
Meili looked up, her expression calm but her eyes shadowed with fatigue. "Because you’re my son," she said simply, brushing damp hair from her forehead. Her smile was faint, almost wistful, as she adjusted her bowl with hands that had long since forgotten rest. "Because I’d rather see you grow strong than go hungry."
Tianmo stared at her for a long moment, guilt and frustration warring within him. "I’ll get stronger," he said finally, his voice firm. "Strong enough to protect you, Ma. Strong enough to make them pay."
Meili reached across the table, resting a hand on his. "Strength isn’t all about fighting, Tianmo," she said softly. "It’s about knowing when to stand tall and when to bend—like bamboo in a storm."
Tianmo frowned, her words sinking in even as his heart rebelled against them. "I still want to learn," he said, his voice quieter now. "How to survive. How to protect what matters."
Meili’s smile widened, tinged with both pride and sadness. "One step at a time, my clever Momo," she said. "For now, eat while the storm sings for us."
The rain outside intensified, its rhythm a wild percussion against the roof. But inside their small home, the warmth of the fire and the quiet bond between mother and son created a fragile peace.