The morning began with the sharp clatter of utensils as Rokan motioned Jin into the small kitchen space adjoining the workshop. The faint scent of herbs mingled with the richer, earthier smell of root vegetables piled on the counter. Rokan stood over a simmering pot, his movements deliberate as he stirred the contents. Without turning, he barked, “Today, you’re cooking.”
Jin blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Me?”
“Who else?” Rokan shot back, his tone gruff. “You think I’ve got the time to cook for you every day? If you’re going to keep up with these lessons, you’ll need to eat properly. And if you’re going to eat properly, you’ll learn to make your own meals.”
Jin hesitated, staring at the assortment of ingredients on the counter. The task felt daunting. Cooking scraps in an alley or heating leftovers was one thing; creating something from fresh ingredients was another entirely. Still, he stepped forward, determination outweighing doubt.
“Good,” Rokan grunted, sliding a knife toward him. “Start with the vegetables. Cut them evenly, and don’t waste anything.”
The first few cuts were clumsy, uneven slices that earned a disapproving grunt from Rokan. “You’re not hacking wood. Control your hand. Feel the rhythm of the blade.”
Jin adjusted his grip on the knife, his fingers trembling slightly. “Don’t cut too thick,” Rokan barked, and Jin bit back a sigh. Every slice felt like walking a tightrope, the blade wavering as he tried to keep his movements precise. His shoulders tensed, expecting another critique, but when Rokan simply grunted and moved on, Jin’s chest filled with cautious pride. Maybe I’m not failing after all, he thought.
Rokan lingered by the counter, arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking every movement Jin made. He barked corrections with his usual gruffness, but there was something in the way he stayed close, as though ready to steady Jin if he faltered. When Jin’s knife finally moved with precision, Rokan’s lips twitched — a motion so faint it barely existed — before he turned away, muttering about the broth.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” Rokan admitted grudgingly. “Now, the broth. Pay attention.”
The rest of the morning became an intricate dance of instructions and trial-and-error. Instead of bones, Rokan handed Jin a pot of clean water and a bundle of dried mushrooms. “This will save time. Mushrooms work just as well for depth if you know what you’re doing.”
Next came the aromatics. Under Rokan’s watchful eye, Jin charred whole onions and ginger over the open flame, the skins blackening and crackling as the smoky scent deepened. He peeled away the burnt layers, revealing the soft, fragrant flesh beneath, and added them to the pot.
“Now, the spices,” Rokan instructed, handing Jin a pouch. “Star anise, cinnamon, cloves… Toast them lightly. Don’t burn them, or you’ll ruin the whole pot.” He gestured at the pouch, his expression twisting into a mix of irritation and disdain. “These spices — they’ve brought more trouble to this kingdom than they’re worth. Empires covet them, merchants kill for them, and fools like us toss them in a pot and call it food. Makes you wonder if the trouble’s worth it.”
Jin worked carefully, the dry skillet releasing waves of heady fragrance as the spices warmed. Rokan’s earlier remark lingered in his mind, confusing him. Was the old man really concerned about the empire’s greed, or was it just one of his endless grumbles? Jin didn’t know how to respond, so he chose instead to focus on the task at hand.
Wrapping the spices in a cloth, he dropped the bundle into the pot, where it joined the simmering mushrooms and aromatics. The broth began to take on a life of its own, its complexity growing with every ingredient, and Jin let the familiar rhythm of cooking push his uncertainties aside.
Minutes passed as the pot simmered, Rokan guiding Jin on how to skim the foam and adjust the seasoning with fish sauce and rock salt. “Not too much,” Rokan warned. “Balance is everything.”
When the broth was ready, Jin soaked the glass noodles and quickly blanched them in boiling water. His movements grew steadier with each step, the rhythm of the process anchoring him. At last, he assembled the bowls, placing the noodles first, then layering thin slices of tofu before ladling the piping-hot broth over everything. Fresh herbs and bean sprouts completed the dish.
By the time they sat down to eat, Jin could barely believe he’d had a hand in creating the steaming bowl of soup before him. The flavors were rich and layered, the broth clear yet deeply complex, each ingredient contributing without overpowering. As Jin took a tentative sip, a flicker of pride warmed him, mingling with the day’s exhaustion.
Rokan said nothing as he ate, but the faint nod he gave Jin’s efforts spoke louder than words.
Throughout the day, Jin moved between his responsibilities with a growing sense of purpose. The sharp scent of salves and herbs filled the air as he held a patient’s arm steady, his fingers trembling slightly under the weight of the task. Rokan’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and instructive. “Notice the way the skin reacts,” he said. “If it darkens too quickly, the circulation’s off.” Jin nodded, biting back the nervous shake in his hands as he focused intently. The small movements of the patient’s arm became lessons in precision.
At other times, Rokan would hand Jin jars with curt instructions. “Grind this to a fine powder. No clumps.” Jin measured and ground herbs under the old man’s exacting gaze, his movements slow but deliberate.
Each task became a test of both skill and nerve, the rhythm of the shop demanding his complete attention. With every small success, Jin felt a flicker of pride, though Rokan rarely gave more than a grunt of acknowledgment.
When the flow of customers slowed, Jin would turn his attention to the books and scrolls stacked on a corner table. The characters loomed on the pages like distant peaks, daunting and seemingly insurmountable. Each stroke required precision, but Jin’s hands trembled as he tried to control the brush. His fingers, accustomed to gripping rough objects and enduring strain, lacked the finesse demanded by the delicate task.
Rokan’s gruff corrections came swiftly and without mercy. “This stroke’s wrong. Again,” he barked, his finger tapping impatiently against the page. Jin gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling as his body lagged behind his mind. He could see the mistakes, understand where his hand faltered, but knowing wasn’t enough to stop the errors. The brush wavered, betraying his intent, and each correction felt like dragging his stubborn limbs up a steep hill.
Yet, with every scolding and repeated attempt, a flicker of progress began to emerge. The strokes grew steadier, the gaps between mistakes shorter. Rokan didn’t praise him, but the lack of a barked correction on one particular line felt like an unspoken acknowledgment. Jin clung to that small victory, letting it fuel his determination to master the task.
Occasionally, Rokan tested Jin’s memory. “What does feverfew do?” he would ask abruptly as Jin organized jars. “Good for headaches,” Jin replied without hesitation, then faltered for a moment before adding, “And reducing fevers.” His responses came quickly, as if he were plucking the information from a well-organized archive in his mind. Rokan gave a gruff nod of approval but said nothing more.
Jin’s memory was sharp, nearly photographic in its clarity, though not perfect. As he worked through the jars, organizing them under Rokan’s watchful eye, he couldn’t help but connect pieces of knowledge he had absorbed from the books. A sudden thought struck him, and he turned toward Rokan, his curiosity outweighing his hesitation.
“Uncle Rokan,” Jin began, the words feeling strange on his tongue. He wasn’t sure why he said it — maybe because it was what the street children called men who barked at them but still tossed them scraps. Maybe because, despite his gruffness, Rokan had become something steady in a life that had always wavered. “Why do different healers use the same herb in such different ways? One book says it’s for headaches, but another says it’s good for muscle pain. Are they both right?”
Rokan glanced up from his workbench, setting down a bundle of dried leaves. “Depends on the healer. And the patient,” he replied curtly. “Herbs aren’t magic, boy. They’re tools. How you use them makes the difference.”
Jin frowned, turning the jar in his hands as he considered this. “But doesn’t that mean there’s no single right way? How do you know which method works best?”
Rokan sighed, his gaze sharpening. “By knowing your patient, your craft, and trusting your gut. Books give you theory, but real life? Real life’s messier. You’ll figure it out — eventually.”
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Jin nodded, though the answer stirred more questions in his mind. He placed the jar back on the shelf, his thoughts circling the connections he’d begun to see. Feverfew’s description in one book overlapped with treatments outlined in another. The properties of a herb weren’t rigid; they were part of a greater system. Each piece of knowledge wove into something larger, and for the first time, Jin felt as though the books were speaking to one another through him.
He tested his growing understanding throughout the day, observing the patients who filtered in and out of the shop. A man clutched his side, his wince subtle but revealing. Jin noticed the uneven flush of his skin and silently wondered if it was linked to a passage he had read on internal inflammation. A woman hesitated over a salve, her nervous glance betraying embarrassment before she could speak.
By the time the day ended, Jin felt physically weary, his mind stretched thin from absorbing so much. Yet, there was satisfaction in the exhaustion, a sense that each task, each observation, was a step forward. By midday, Jin found himself observing more than just the patients — he began watching the subtle dynamics between people. A customer’s hesitant glance toward a jar of salve hinted at embarrassment; a clenched jaw revealed pain unspoken. These moments fascinated Jin, connecting the lessons from the books to the realities of the shop.
That evening, after the shop had closed and the quiet of the Harbor settled in, Rokan motioned for Jin to follow him out to the clearing behind the workshop. The soft rustle of leaves mingled with the distant hum of the sea, the darkness punctuated only by the faint glow of the moon and stars. Jin’s legs ached from the day’s work, and his mind buzzed with fragments of lessons and half-formed questions.
Rokan stood tall, his arms crossed, his silhouette steady against the backdrop of the night sky. He regarded Jin with a sharp, measuring look before speaking. “Today was for your hands and your mind. Tonight, it’s your breath. Without it, you might as well be a pile of sticks waiting for the wind to scatter you.”
Jin straightened, curiosity mingling with exhaustion. “What do you mean?”
“Breathing,” Rokan replied, his tone gruff but steady. “It’s the foundation of everything. Not flashy techniques or magic tricks. Just survival. Breathing keeps your head clear and your body steady, no matter the storm. And if you can’t master that, boy, nothing else matters.”
Jin nodded, curiosity mingling with skepticism. He’d never thought much about breathing before; it was just something you did. But as Rokan demonstrated, taking slow, deliberate breaths that seemed to expand his entire frame, Jin began to see the control behind the simplicity.
“Stand like this,” Rokan instructed, adjusting Jin’s posture with firm but careful hands. “Back straight, chest open. You’re not a sack of grain, boy. Now inhale — slowly, through your nose. Fill your lungs. Then exhale through your mouth, steady and even. Like the tide.”
Jin tried, but his first attempts were shaky. His chest tightened, the breaths coming too shallow or too fast.
Rokan stepped back, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He watched Jin struggle with each breath, his brows knitting slightly. “Don’t stop,” he said, his voice softer than before. The boy’s Qi flickered faintly, a fragile thread barely holding, but Rokan’s sharp eyes didn’t leave him. For a moment, his posture softened, as though willing the boy to find his footing. Then he straightened, his tone sharp again. “Again. From the belly.”
Stepping closer, Rokan adjusted Jin’s posture with hands firm but precise, like a sculptor reshaping clay. “Feel that tension?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Your shoulders are bunched up like a scared cat’s. Relax them. Open your chest. Breathe from your belly, not your throat. If you’re gulping air like a fish out of water, you’ll never get anywhere.”
He stepped back momentarily, observing every subtle shift in Jin’s stance. The boy’s arms trembled slightly, and his knees locked as if bracing against an unseen weight. Even the faint flutter of his nostrils betrayed how his body struggled to align itself.
The minutes stretched on, the clearing filled only with the rhythm of Jin’s uneven breaths and the distant rustle of leaves. Gradually, Rokan noted an improvement. The rise of Jin’s chest smoothed, his inhales deepened, and his exhalations steadied into something resembling control. The Qi within him, though faint, began to flow with a tentative coherence, like a stream clearing after a storm.
“Better,” Rokan said finally, stepping back, his critical gaze softening just a fraction. “Do this every day. Morning and night. It’ll take time, but you’ll notice the difference.”
Jin inhaled slowly, the air catching in his throat like a fish snagged on a hook. His chest burned, the motion unfamiliar and awkward. “Lower,” Rokan barked, his tone slicing through the night. Jin tried again, this time focusing on his abdomen, letting the air settle deeper. The ache in his legs from the day’s work bled into the strain of the exercise, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward. For a fleeting moment, the air flowed smoothly, and his body felt… still. Whole. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, but it left Jin craving more.
“But remember,” Rokan added, his tone sharpening. “This isn’t magic. It’s not some mystical Qi nonsense. It won’t make you invincible. You’re still a twig in a storm. But with this, you might stand longer before you break.”
Jin met Rokan’s gaze, determination flickering in his eyes. “I’ll do it. Every day.”
Rokan grunted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “We’ll see.”
After the exercise, Rokan handed Jin another book, its cover worn from years of use. “This one, you’ll learn the recipes from. If you can’t even master a cookbook, there’s no point in teaching you to be a healer.” His tone was as sharp as ever, but there was a note of expectation buried beneath it.
Jin opened the book, his eyes scanning the characters. Some were familiar, others alien, their meanings just out of reach. He traced a finger along the lines, piecing together the instructions with the same determination he had brought to the day’s lessons.
“Tonight, cook this,” Rokan said curtly, tapping one page. “You’ve practiced enough to manage without mangling it.”
Jin set to work, his hands steady despite the weight of the task. The kitchen filled with the aroma of simmering ingredients, the soft hiss of boiling water mingling with the occasional clatter of utensils. Rokan watched from the corner, his arms crossed, his sharp eyes noting every movement. The boy was clumsy but careful, his focus unwavering as he measured and stirred.
When the meal was finally ready, Jin presented it without a word, his face a mixture of pride and apprehension. Rokan tasted the dish, his expression unreadable. “Not bad,” he said finally. “You’ve got potential, boy, but you’re still green. Life’ll teach you the tricks if you’re paying attention.”
As they ate, Rokan’s gaze lingered on Jin, sharp and probing. The boy chewed slowly, his shoulders finally relaxed after the strain of the day. Rokan took another bite, his chopsticks pausing as he observed the slight tremor in Jin’s hands and the uneven breaths he still hadn’t mastered. The Qi in the boy’s body flickered faintly, like a fire struggling against the wind, sluggish and disconnected.
“You think this meal’s a win, don’t you?” Rokan said abruptly, his tone gruff but low enough to avoid breaking the quiet.
Jin glanced up, startled, but nodded cautiously. “It’s better than what I’ve cooked before.”
Rokan snorted, setting his bowl down. “Barely. You’re steady enough to get through a recipe, but your body isn’t catching up to your mind. Each step today — breathing, chopping, grinding herbs — you got through them, but not without struggle. Your Qi’s like a lazy river, boy. No flow, no momentum. It’s why you stumble every time I push you.”
Jin frowned, his chopsticks faltering. “Can it get better?”
“Depends,” Rokan replied bluntly. “You keep at it, every day, and maybe you’ll manage to get that spark going. Breathing will help. Movement will help more. Don’t get ahead of yourself thinking you’re invincible, though. You’re still as fragile as wet parchment.”
Jin nodded, absorbing the words without protest. He lowered his gaze to his bowl, the faint pride from earlier now tempered by the weight of Rokan’s critique.
“Good,” Rokan said after a moment, leaning back. His gaze softened briefly, though his voice didn’t lose its edge. “You’re learning, boy. That’s what matters. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can handle more.”
Rokan smirked faintly, but his mind was already elsewhere, assembling the next steps. After the breathing techniques, the boy would need movement — forms simple enough to awaken the Qi locked in his limbs but deliberate enough to rebuild his wasted strength. Not combat, and certainly not cultivation, but something that could tether his scattered energy and turn fragility into resilience.
After the meal, Rokan leaned back, his critical gaze never straying far from Jin. “Clean the table when you’re done,” he said curtly, though his tone carried less bite than usual. “And think about what you’ve learned today. Cooking isn’t just about following instructions. Every choice you make — how much heat, how much spice, how long you simmer — affects the outcome. Same with breathing, boy. Every breath is a choice.”
Jin nodded, carefully stacking the empty bowls. His shoulders ached, and his legs felt like they carried twice their weight, but the exhaustion didn’t deter him. Instead, it pushed him forward, sharpening his determination. As he wiped the table clean, Rokan’s words echoed in his mind, their weight settling deeply.
“You’re too stiff,” Rokan added, watching him from the doorway. “Your body fights you at every turn. That’s not something you’ll fix in a day — or even a year. But discipline will shape you, and discipline starts small.”
Jin paused, glancing at his hands, which still trembled faintly from the day’s work. “Small steps,” he murmured, half to himself.
Rokan smirked, catching the comment. “Steps, yes. Stumbles, more likely. But you’ll walk eventually — if you don’t fall apart first.”
Later, as Jin settled into the quiet of the workshop, he opened the book Rokan had given him earlier. The characters on the page blurred for a moment before sharpening into clarity. His hand, though tired, moved steadily as he traced the words, his mind racing to connect them to the tasks of the day.
For every line he read, a memory surfaced — a flash of the spices he toasted, the rhythm of his breaths under Rokan’s sharp gaze, or the feel of a patient’s trembling hand in his own. Each lesson felt like a thread weaving into a larger tapestry, and for the first time, Jin felt as though the pieces of his life were beginning to align.