The morning dawned obscure and cold despite the brilliance of the summer sun. The persistent fog of Mount Xuedou, where even the summer snows, once again shrouded its many peaks.

It was another cold morning like any other, but this morning, in particular, heralded the Heavenly Snowy Temple’s annual event. Children ages six to ten gathered in front of the grand nine-storied pagoda in the center of the vast temple grounds. In these violent times, more and more children were fostered and sheltered by the lay monks — pitiful children left without their kin.

Some were left as babes in warm cradles outside the monasteries, while others were rescued and brought back to the temple by warrior monks descending from the mountain to devastated lands.

…Such was the reality of the war-torn world.

Distantly bordering these children were monks of all standings overseeing the grand event. They don the temple’s deep blue and white kasaya robes as joyous expressions dance across their faces despite their bald heads being uncomfortably topped white in snow.

One by one, the children step before the Abbot, the head of their temple, as he holds a deep basket in one of his wrinkled hands.

The Abbot would gently clasp their youthful hands with a smile before closing his eyes. “What is your name, boy?”

“Xua Fan!”

“I see, I see. Xua Fan, you’re the first. Are you nervous?” the Abbot softly asked to ease the boy.

The boy deliberated for a few seconds before hesitantly nodding, focusing on the Abbot’s hand. Then, in the next moment, the boy jerked his hand away from the Abbot’s, startled by something invasively running through him.

“Above your years indeed! Amitabha!” the Abbot laughed as he at last opened his eyes.

The monks who’d experienced this event before could tell that their powerful Abbot judged if the children were capable enough to be bestowed a gift by flowing just a speck of his dense prana through the children.

Then, the Abbot warmly patted the shy boy’s shoulder before he reached into the basket at his side. The other children who crowded the square intently watched, practically climbing over the other as the Abbot revealed what he grabbed from the basket.

“Take this — a Hell Shard, supplied by our Warrior Monks in their crusades. As your teachers have taught you, this will awaken your class and initiate you into the Seekers Accord. It is a shame we must do so, but our temple mustn’t misread the Dao and trail behind the flow of the world.” The Abbot frowned ever so slightly before returning to a pleased face as he placed the Hell Shard into the boy’s cupped hands.

“Take it and tell us what class you’ve received.”

The boy stared intently at the jagged Hell Shard held in his small clasp. It was small, small as a pebble that he would find when he played outside, except that it looked nothing like a regular pebble. Its surface is an eerie, molten black, crisscrossed with veins of glowing red like the pit fires that heat the monastery outside. He tightened his grip on the Hell Shard and absorbed it before his face gawked in shock.

The Abbot, monks, and other children watched the startled boy. It took a few seconds before the boy opened his eyes and his face beamed brightly, as though he heard something that the others couldn’t.

“I’m Xue Fan, Monk of the Heavenly Snowy Temple!” The boy laughed proudly.

The Abbot smiled. “It is a boon that our children and temple will grow strong — now go! Return to your teacher, little monk Xue Fan.”

The child nodded with a smile as the Abbot walked over to the next child in line, all the while the group of children made surprised sounds as they eagerly awaited their turn.

“Xue Li, Monk of the Snowy Temple!”

“Xue Song, Monk of the Snowy Temple!”

“Xue Zhi, Monk of the Snowy Temple!”

The cycle repeated over and over, and gradually the expressions of a few senior monks who oversaw the teachings of these young monks of the temple became lighter. They were relieved that only a handful thus far had been rejected by the Abbot. Although these few children didn’t have the aptitude to become cultivators, they still could live peacefully as lay monks of the temple.

Eventually, the Abbot came upon the last child in line, a particularly young one at that.

Xue Dejiu is a fostered child like the others, sheltered because of the temple’s magnanimity. Like the others, Dejiu was left without a family name, and in turn, given the Dharma name of their temple, Xue.

“Amitabha, last you are — tell me your name, child.” the Abbot coaxed.

“Dejiu. Xue Dejiu,” the boy responded, his voice quiet yet firm for his age.

“Xue Dejiu,” the Abbot intoned softly, his hand reaching for Dejiu’s.

The enigmatic Abbot that Dejiu had heard so much about from his teacher then closed his eyes. Using the brief moment of stillness as their hands locked together, Dejiu studied the Abbot’s features. Two long white eyebrows drooped below his ears, and a wispy beard grazed the exposed, sunken chest of the old man. The Abbot looked every bit the part of the wise figure his teacher had described — odd, ancient, and like the sages he’d heard about in stories.

Before Dejiu could look anymore, he felt a deep jolt inside his body. Unlike the first child tested by the Abbot, Dejiu wasn’t surprised but rather felt a little uncomfortable because of how intruding the Abbot’s prana energy was.

…The Abbot’s eyes opened and met Dejiu’s with a warmth that momentarily eased the tension in his chest. “Above your years, more so than the others, Little Dejiu.”

Then, the Abbot extended his hand and placed the Hell Shard into Dejiu’s small, cupped hands with a slight nod.

With that, Dejiu tightened his fist around the Hell Shard, as much as his small hands and trembling strength would allow.

Then he heard it just as strange characters appeared before Dejiu’s eyes.

[You have acquired a Hell Shard (Impure). The requirement to unlock the Seekers Accord has been met.]

[Congratulations, Seeker Xua Dejiu. Receive your boons.]

[Designating Class as Reward!]

[...] [...] [...]

[Class Designated! Class: Blood Monk]

[Class Description: Having fallen upwards from the depths this pitiful herald of blood roams forever lost.]

[Attribute[s]: Doomed Entwinement — Shattered Innocence]

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[Attribute Description: Doomed Entwinement — This pitiful herald of blood is forsaken to be ever entwined with such twisted beings, the everlonging Daimons of rebirth. However, this bond comes with the same indescribable yearning for what has been lost in exchange.]

[Attribute Description: Shattered Innocence — You cried the throes of struggle before you cried the tears of adolescence. An echo of innocence stolen and replaced by blood and steel.]

[Path: ???]

[Bloodright: ???]

[Prana Core: Low Initiate]

[Prana: 4/4]

A sick feeling bubbles up in Dejiu’s throat as he realizes something has gone wrong. Dejiu didn’t know what was happening! Yes, he didn’t know much of anything as the monotone voice spoke in his head, but he didn’t hear the one thing he needed to hear most that the other children before him did…

B-Blood Monk? Not a regular monk?

The monks and children watched, waiting for Dejiu’s face to brighten like the others and for his proud voice to call out his class.

But when Dejiu’s eyes snapped open, they were not filled with that same pride. His breath quickened and his heart wrung tight. Dejiu instinctively glanced to the far end of the square to his teacher as he recalled some of the teachings repeatedly ingrained in him.

P-practice truthfulness. Abstain from false speech.

“Speak your class, child,” the Abbot urged gently, noticing the hesitation in Dejiu.

Dejiu looked back at the Abbot before him and swallowed hard, his body faintly shaking as he forced himself to speak.

“B-Blood Monk,” he whispered, “Xue Dejiu, Blood Monk of the Heavenly Snowy Temple.”

Dejiu’s layered robes fluttered in the wintry wind along with his words as the square turned oddly quiet. Even at the age of six, he could tell that this wasn’t supposed to be. To be different.

Countless attentive eyes were on him, even from the youngest of children who, like him, didn’t know what would come with a different class.

“Blood Monk? Amitabha, this was not supposed…” the Abbot echoed before raising a hand to his lengthy beard. “I have yet to hear such a thing before. A Blood Monk?”

The Abbot remained silent before he narrowed his eyes at the boy. “This Seekers Accord calls you of the temple, but it seems you need more than this temple has given you thus far, I fear.”

With that, the Abbot turned, his robes swishing like falling snow, leaving Dejiu standing amidst the silent echoes of his unspoken reprimand as his teacher came to him instead.

Despite his teacher praising his honesty, he couldn’t help but notice from that cold morning on, he was never met with the same warm smiles from the others again.

—

Seven winters passed over the peaks of Mount Xuedou, and with each snowfall, Dejiu’s years in the temple slipped away like frost melting under the morning light. He had grown taller and quieter, his black eyes reflected both the sharp edge of youth and the deepening shadows of the temple etched into his heart.

Today, as a gentle breeze rolled through the mountain temple’s open walls, carrying the distant scent of pine and crisp snow, Dejiu found his mind wandering, boredom washing over his mind, and sleep alluring him. His eyelids grew heavy, lulled by Teacher Jiansu’s soft-spoken teaching.

Jiansu, his father in all but name, placed an aged scripture between them. “Listen well,”

“The First Noble Truth, Dejiu — suffering is a part of life, woven into the world. To understand this truth is the beginning of peace.”

Jiansu’s hand lifted, briefly still, and then came down in a hard smack on Dejiu’s head, his palm weighted with a tightly rolled scripture scroll. Startled, Dejiu’s eyes snapped open, and he rubbed his head with a faint scowl, his face tinged with drowsy indignation.

“Stay awake, Dejiu,” Jiansu murmured, barely masking his amusement. “The mind’s wanderings are as dangerous as any daimon. Amitabha, you’re thirteen now!”

Dejiu sat up straighter, brushing the sleep from his eyes. With his usual patient demeanor, Jiansu continued as if nothing had happened.

“Consider this,” Jiansu said, adjusting his robe. “The suffering of others is no different than your own. To offer them relief is to relieve yourself, yes?”

Dejiu nodded, but his expression skeptical. “How does one relieve suffering in a world that thrives on it? Purpose? Is that why this… Seekers Accord exists? To expel the daimons from this world? Killing to save lives?”

Jiansu let out a long, weary sigh as he gathered the worn edges of the leather-bound scripture. “Killing, fighting, battling. You’re fit to be a warrior monk if they would allow you.”

“...Can you ask those geezers again, Teacher?”

“Even stone yields to water over time, and they’re not geezers,” Jiansu murmured, fastening the final knot with a flick. He glanced at Dejiu, his expression softening. “Patience, like the threads that bind this text, is woven slowly.”

Pah! Speaking in riddles and poems again. Dejiu thought.

Jiansu placed the wrapped scripture back on the shelf, his gaze lingering a moment longer before drawing away, as if entrusting his teachings to time itself. “They fear you would be too violent, too brash. And so they wish that you learn before you fight.”

“But Teacher!” Dejiu grumbled. “I’m behind the others! I have yet to learn anything! Cultivation, martial arts, the temple’s Path, and anything about the Seekers Accord! How will I return the kindness of the temple at this rate? Is that not part of the teachings?”

Jiansu turned, his brow lifted at Dejiu’s words. “To return kindness requires patience, Dejiu. For what is kindness if not enduring, calm in the face of desire? You seek techniques, power. But to rush toward strength without the wisdom to guide it is like releasing an arrow without aim.”

“But how can I give back if I have nothing to offer?” Dejiu persisted. “Didn’t you once say that to give fully, we must cultivate ourselves? How else am I to show my gratitude to the temple? To you?”

Jiansu sighed, untying the string that bound the scripture in his hand, rolling it open to reveal a passage marked by faint ink strokes. “Cultivating oneself begins here.” He pointed to his chest. “It means restraining the fire of one’s own will, seeking understanding before action, compassion before strength.”

“But Teacher,” Dejiu insisted, his gaze meeting Jiansu’s, “without the techniques, strength — my desire to protect is meaningless.” His voice lowered as he asked, “Is my earnestness not enough? You know how they look at me. Maybe if I can show them through my actions, then they will stop acting as if I am any different from them—”

“Enough, Dejiu. We’ll talk about this another time. I’ll leave the scripture here, make sure to study this thoroughly and be able to repeat what you’ve learned when I return to the temple.”

Dejiu’s face waned at the change of topic, already knowing where his teacher was headed. “...Stay safe, Teacher.”

It didn’t take long for Jiansu to disembark, patting and ruffling Dejiu’s shaved head before stepping out of their humble room. “I know you’ll try and cultivate against my wishes, but after you do so, check the compartment underneath my sleeping mat. I have a gift for you.”

Dejiu curiously raised an eyebrow but still waved off his teacher.

With his teacher gone, he lay on his side and stared out the window, where the bleak mountain air swept in like a whisper. He could see the many peaks of Mount Xuedou, their icy tips glistening under the weak sunlight. The scene outside felt like a world away — those were the training halls he wasn’t permitted to enter.

Blood Monk, He echoed the very reason for his treatment.

Sighing heavily, he summoned part of his Seekers Accord.

[Class: Blood Monk]

[Class Description: Having fallen upwards from the depths this pitiful herald of blood roams forever lost.]

Forever lost… He thought with a heavy sigh as he sat up in a lotus position and fixed his loose kasaya robes.

Dejiu then closed his eyes. He visualized his flimsy core. It sat just beneath the navel, right where all his meridians flowed to and fro. Its state is pitiful, minutely holding more prana than a child. Such was the result of everyone, even Jiansu, not teaching him any cultivation methods. The Abbot himself forbade it that day. So he relied on his natural senses to draw in the prana in the air, and even then he could hardly call his rudimentary intake a cultivation method.

He slowly breathed in the ambient prana.

He evened out his breathing, inhaling and exhaling with his calm pulse. The prana flowed into his body according to his so-called cultivation method. Then, he willed the prana to flow through his core, then his meridians, and then back into his core. Willing and flowing prana in a certain way is the foundation of a cultivation method. Alas, his way was nothing more advanced than what a child could do.

As if I can let those geezers stop me from growing stronger. He snorted to himself.

For seven years, Dejiu cultivated inside this cold room alone or with Jiansu silently overseeing him. All day and into the night, Dejiu cultivated. If this was all he had to endure to escape this life, he would consider it a small price to pay. Spiteful much? A little.

…Without enduring the bone-chilling cold, how can a plum blossom have such a sweet fragrance? He told himself with a bitter smile.

And so he cultivated, no matter how slowly he did so.