The days after their return from the poisoned village were unsettling, as though an ill wind had carried whispers of trouble into every corner of Seta. One afternoon, a messenger arrived at the clinic, his dusty sandals and travel-worn tunic speaking of a hurried journey. Though he moved with formal bearing, the urgency in his eyes betrayed his haste. Jin watched in silence as the man presented a sealed scroll to Rokan, bowing respectfully before stepping aside.

Rokan broke the seal with a flick of his thumb, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. His expression darkened as he read, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Typical bureaucracy,” he muttered, tossing the scroll onto the counter.

Jin picked up the parchment, his curiosity overcoming his hesitation. The neat script detailed the Governor’s response: a promise to alert a nearby sect specializing in purifying malevolent Qi. But there was a catch—the aid could take weeks to arrive.

“What if the villagers can’t wait that long?” Jin asked, his voice tight as he set the scroll down.

Rokan sighed heavily, his gaze drifting to the jars of herbs lining the shelves. “That’s why we left them remedies. It’ll slow the poison’s spread, buy them time. But Corpse Qi? It’s not something we can handle alone. They need Qi purification—real cultivation. That’s not for someone like me.”

The clinic fell into a tense silence. Outside, the marketplace hummed with life, but inside, the weight of their limitations hung heavily. Jin’s fingers tightened around the notebook in his lap as he scribbled down his thoughts: the whispers in the poisoned village, the strange chill that clung to the air, and the shadow of a greater threat looming just out of reach.

That same afternoon unfolded with an unusual hush. Instead of the steady stream of patients, only a few trickled in. Jin sat at the counter, skillfully sorting dried herbs into pouches. Each rustle of leaves sounded amplified in the stillness, mixing with the market’s distant clamor. Across the room, Rokan remained at his workbench, a rare lull rendering him pensive. His normally restless eyes appeared fixed on the tools laid out before him, and the quiet air bristled with unspoken purpose.

Rokan sat at his workbench, unusually still. His sharp eyes, which normally darted between tasks, remained fixed on the tools arrayed before him. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken purpose, until Rokan’s gruff voice broke it.

“Boy,” he said abruptly, the words cutting through the air like the snap of a branch. “Come and listen. It’s time you learned something worth knowing.”

Jin blinked, setting the herbs aside before moving to sit across from the old healer. He straightened instinctively, sensing the weight of the moment. Rokan’s expression was inscrutable, his gaze sharp as ever.

“Healing isn’t just about potions and remedies,” Rokan began, his tone measured, though tinged with disdain. “Especially not those tiny pills the Dominion traders peddle in bulk. They’re easy solutions, meant to dull symptoms and appease laziness. Real healing—true healing—is about seeing the truths others overlook. The things they’re too busy, too distracted, or too afraid to see.”

Jin nodded, leaning forward slightly as Rokan’s words took on a cadence that demanded attention. “I had a patient once,” Rokan continued. “A woman whose fever wouldn’t break. The local healers had tried everything—herbs, poultices, even bloodletting. Nothing worked.”

He paused, his eyes narrowing as though the memory played out before him. “When I visited her home, it felt wrong. Bare walls, empty shelves—no keepsakes, no trinkets. Just a dusty frame where a picture should have been. Her sickness wasn’t in her body, boy. It was in her heart. She’d lost her husband weeks before, and no one noticed the grief that consumed her.”

Rokan leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “I gave her medicine, yes, but I also sat with her. Listened. Told her neighbors to stop by, bring her something—anything—to remind her she wasn’t alone. Slowly, the fever broke. Sometimes, what’s killing someone isn’t in their body at all.”

Rokan paused, letting the lesson settle. Jin ventured, “How did you see what others missed?”

“You notice not just what’s there, but what should be there,” Rokan replied, leaning back with a slight shrug. “That’s the difference between a charlatan and a true healer.”

Another recollection sprang to his mind, and his voice took on a brisker edge: “There was a man who could hardly stand. Everyone called it a back injury. In truth, it was his worn-out shoes, lopsided from years of uneven walking. A fresh pair and a few adjustments, and he regained his stride in a matter of days.”

Rokan cast his glance toward the open clinic door, sunlight spilling across the threshold. “This whole town, from the oldest cobblestone to the stray dog in the alley, is telling a story. You must learn to listen. A faint cough at twilight, footprints by a sick man’s window… they all connect if you’re watchful.”

Jin nodded slowly, his mind already racing. He glanced at the small notebook he kept in his pocket, the one Rokan had given him weeks ago. Pulling it out, he flipped to an empty page and began scribbling furiously, his notes ranging from the faint rustling of the wind outside to the uneven steps of a passerby on the street.

Rokan’s sharp eyes caught the movement, and he grunted approvingly, though his gaze lingered a moment longer. “Good,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Start small. Write down everything you notice. The colors of the sunset. The gossip in the market. Even the way the wind bends the trees. But don’t stop there. You’ve got more in that sharp head of yours than what you’re putting on paper.” He leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Observation isn’t just about what’s clear. It’s about digging into what you’re afraid to see.”

For the next hour, Jin sat near the clinic’s entrance, his pen darting across the pages of his notebook. He noted the faint wheeze in an old woman’s laugh, the peculiar way a vendor rearranged his stall whenever someone approached, and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer punctuating the rhythm of the afternoon.

The sunlight slanted through the clinic’s open door, casting faint patterns on the floor as Jin positioned himself near the entrance. Rokan had set him to a simple task—observe, write, repeat—but Jin knew better than to think it was easy. His eyes darted between the cobblestone street and the distant market stalls, each movement deliberate as he strained to catch every detail.

He inhaled deeply, using the breathing technique Rokan had drilled into him. The air filled his lungs slowly, expanding his chest, before he released it in a controlled exhale. His heartbeat steadied, his senses sharpening. The faint murmur of voices drifted toward him, mingling with the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone and the occasional shout from a vendor.

Jin’s eyes settled on a man trudging past with a bundle of firewood. The way the man favored his left side caught Jin’s attention. His stride was uneven, his right shoulder sagging slightly. Jin scribbled into his notebook, noting the man’s posture and the worn sole of his shoe.

A faint laugh drew Jin’s gaze to an old woman seated by a nearby stall. Her laugh ended with a wheeze, the sound faint but sharp enough to stand out. Jin jotted a quick note: Wheeze—likely weak lungs. Age or illness?

He leaned forward slightly, his ears straining as a pair of younger men passed by, their conversation low and hurried. “...late at night,” one of them said. “Robed figures, moving toward the eastern road.”

“Cultivation secrets,” the other replied, his tone edged with unease. “If you ask me, that’s dangerous knowledge.”

Jin’s brush hesitated mid-stroke, the words lodging in his mind like a pebble in a stream. He glanced toward Rokan, but the old healer remained focused on grinding herbs, his expression unreadable. Silently, Jin added the snippet to his growing list of observations.

His gaze shifted back to the street, where a vendor rearranged his stall with an almost obsessive precision. The man’s hands trembled faintly as he adjusted each item, his shoulders tense. Jin frowned, jotting down a note about possible anxiety or physical strain.

He leaned back, letting his breath flow evenly as he processed the scene around him. The clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer punctuated the steady rhythm of the afternoon. The faint breeze bent the trees in irregular patterns, their shadows dancing across the cobblestones. Every detail, every sound, felt like a thread in a larger tapestry.

Time slipped away. Soon, the clinic’s interior glowed with the warm hue of waning daylight. Rokan perused Jin’s notebook, a grunt escaping him that might have been approval. “Not bad,” he commented, his tone rough but sincere. “But you’re holding back.” He tapped the pages with a calloused fingertip. “Your eyes caught more than you wrote down—fear, suspicion, the uncertain look in a passerby’s face when they believed no one was watching. Next time, don’t filter out the doubts. Often, what you’re afraid to see is exactly where the truth hides.”

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“Healing starts with seeing, boy,” Rokan’s voice broke through the quiet, though he hadn’t looked up from his workbench. “And you’re starting to see.”

Jin smiled faintly, the weight of his doubts easing as he tucked the notebook into his pocket. The world felt larger now, more layered and intricate, and though he still had much to learn, he felt ready to meet it with sharp eyes and a steady heart.

The fading light of day gave way to the warm glow of lanterns within the clinic, but Rokan’s voice broke the quiet before Jin could fully retreat into his thoughts. “Enough scribbling for now, boy,” he said sharply. “Today, you’ll learn more than what fits into that little notebook of yours. Stand up.”

Jin blinked, startled, before snapping the notebook shut and setting it aside. He rose quickly, his body tense with anticipation. Rokan’s lessons were rarely straightforward, and the healer’s mood seemed more pensive than usual.

“Comprehension,” Rokan began, pacing slowly. “It’s not just seeing or listening. It’s understanding what you see, what you hear, and… more importantly… what’s being hidden.”

He stopped by the counter, his hand brushing over the jars of herbs neatly arranged on the shelves. Picking one up, he held it out to Jin. “What do you see?”

Jin frowned, his eyes scanning the jar. “Dried tansy leaves,” he said cautiously. “Good for fevers and inflammation.”

Rokan nodded but didn’t seem impressed. “Good. Now tell me what’s wrong with it.”

Jin hesitated, taking the jar and examining it closely. His fingers turned it over, the light catching on the faint dust clinging to the glass. He frowned deeper, his thoughts racing. “It’s… old. The leaves are brittle, the color too faded to be fresh. It’s lost most of its potency.”

“Exactly,” Rokan said, crossing his arms. “A healer who doesn’t notice such things might as well be handing out sand for all the good it does. Observation is the first step, boy. Comprehension is what makes the difference.”

He set the jar aside and motioned for Jin to follow him outside. The cool evening air greeted them, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from the market’s dying fires. Rokan gestured to the street, his sharp eyes scanning the scattered passersby.

“Now, look,” Rokan instructed. “Not at what’s obvious—at what’s not.”

Jin focused, his gaze sweeping the cobblestone path. A merchant trudged by, a sack slung over his shoulder. Jin’s brow furrowed as he noticed the uneven wear of the man’s shoes, the slight limp in his gait.

“His right leg,” Jin murmured. “He’s compensating for pain. His stride is off.”

“Good,” Rokan said, his tone firm but approving. “Now tell me why.”

Jin hesitated, his mind working through the possibilities. “It could be his work. Carrying heavy loads, overbalancing on one side.”

Rokan gave a terse nod. “When you see a pattern, boy, ask why. Merely spotting it isn’t enough.”

They walked further, the bustle of the marketplace fading into the quieter hum of the residential streets. Rokan paused near a house with a small garden, the leaves of its plants drooping despite the crisp air.

“What about this?” Rokan asked, pointing to the wilting greenery.

Jin leaned closer, noting the dry soil and faint discoloration at the edges of the leaves. “It’s dehydrated,” he said. “But the soil… it’s not just dry. It’s… damaged. The nutrients are gone.”

Rokan gave a short nod. “Something poisoned it. Likely runoff from those dye vats by the river. A sick garden means sick people nearby. Patterns again, boy. Everything connects if you look closely enough.”

Jin scribbled furiously in his notebook as Rokan’s words sank in. Each observation, each connection, added depth to the tapestry of understanding he was learning to weave.

As they returned to the clinic, Rokan paused at the threshold, his expression unreadable. “Remember, boy. Healing isn’t just treating symptoms. It’s finding the story beneath them. If you learn nothing else from me, learn that.”

The days that followed saw Jin bent over his notebook, his brush darting across the pages with tireless energy. Every snippet of conversation from the street, every odd glance or hurried whisper from the marketplace, found its way into his observations. Passersby rarely noticed his watchful gaze as they hurried by, their words weaving into the tapestry of the town’s unspoken stories.

Under the clinic’s awning, Jin made his perch, ears straining to catch fragments of dialogue. He heard of a merchant’s deal gone sour, a mother’s lament about her child’s mischief, and vague whispers about strangers who moved through the outskirts of Seta. The wind carried their voices to him like a conspirator, each snippet filed away in his meticulous scrawl.

At dusk, Jin would pore over his notes, seeking threads in the swirl of voices. Though he read page after page of everyday concerns, references to cultivators kept surfacing—wisps of rumor, names half-spoken, sightings of wandering martial adepts in solemn robes. He found it all at once thrilling and ominous.

“Did you hear?” one passerby had said earlier that day. “They’ve been seen in the upper city, robed and strange.”

“Robed figures?” another voice had replied. “They must be cultivators. Who else would wander around like that?”

The words repeated across different conversations, shifting and changing like the winds of rumor. Some spoke of cultivators as sages, figures of wisdom and power. Others whispered of their secrets and the dangers they brought. Jin’s pen paused over the page, hovering as he replayed the conversations in his mind. What was cultivation? Who were these robed figures that seemed to stir both admiration and unease in the townsfolk?

As night fell and the glow of the clinic’s lanterns pushed back the encroaching dark, Jin looked up from his notebook. Rokan was at the workbench, his hands busy grinding herbs into fine powder. The steady rhythm of the pestle was a sound Jin had come to associate with certainty, a reminder of Rokan’s unshakable presence. For a moment, Jin hesitated, his fingers tightening on the edges of his notebook.

One evening, as the lantern’s glow suffused the clinic with gentle light, Jin closed his notebook and gazed at Rokan. The old healer busied himself grinding herbs in a methodical rhythm, an unspoken surety in each movement. Overcoming his hesitation, Jin spoke: “Uncle Rokan, I keep hearing of these… cultivators. Who are they, really?”

Rokan’s hands stilled, the pestle pausing mid-motion. He glanced up, his sharp gaze meeting Jin’s curious eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his silence filling the room.

“Cultivators,” Rokan said finally, his tone heavy. “They’re people who’ve chosen a different path. One that lets them touch the flow of Qi, the life force that surrounds us. They cultivate it, hone it, and bend it to their will. Some use it to heal, others to fight, and a few to dominate.”

Jin’s brow furrowed as he listened. “Is it dangerous?”

“Everything’s dangerous when it’s misunderstood,” Rokan replied, setting the pestle down with a sharp clack. “And most people misunderstand cultivators. They think them untouchable, beyond the reach of common folk. That’s not entirely wrong, but it’s not entirely right either. Cultivation is power, and power…” He paused, his gaze distant. “Power draws the wrong kind of attention.”

Jin’s curiosity burned brighter. “Have you ever met one?”

A sardonic smile ghosted across Rokan’s lips. “A few. The honorable ones keep to themselves, the cruel ones leave carnage in their wake. It’s simple enough to tell them apart by the trail they leave behind.”

Jin scribbled the words into his notebook, his thoughts racing. As he set his brush down, he glanced back at Rokan, his expression thoughtful. “Do you think they’re still here? The ones in the upper city?”

Rokan’s eyes narrowed. “If so, they won’t stay hidden for long. Cultivators spark gossip wherever they roam. The more talk you hear, the closer trouble lurks.”

Jin nodded, tucking the words away alongside the pages of observations. As the night deepened, curiosity gnawed at him. He stared at the flickering lantern light, the notebook in his lap brimming with questions that had yet to find answers. "Uncle Rokan," he ventured, his voice hesitant, “that weird old man, Sage Open Sky… was he a cultivator?”

Rokan let out a long, weary sigh, setting his tools aside. His sharp eyes turned to Jin, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face. “He’s a cultivator, yes,” Rokan said gruffly. “The wrong kind of cultivator.”

Jin blinked, confusion knitting his brow. “Wrong kind? What does that mean?”

Rokan leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest. “Most cultivators are arrogant fools,” he said bluntly. “They think their Qi makes them better than the rest of us. They chase power, call themselves enlightened, and leave chaos in their wake. Open Sky, though…” He hesitated, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “He’s different. Still a fool, but a fool with a purpose. He doesn’t care about power or status. He drifts, stirring things up, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. But—” Rokan’s tone softened, begrudgingly, “—he’s also my friend.”

Jin’s pen hovered over the page as he listened. “What does he want, then? Why does he come here?”

Rokan sighed again, rubbing a hand across his face. “Open Sky sees too much, knows too much. He’s always meddling, trying to push people toward paths they might not be ready for. Why he’s taken an interest in you, boy? That’s his secret to tell, not mine.”

Jin frowned, his thoughts swirling. “You trust him?”

Rokan’s gaze sharpened. “Trust him? No. But I know him. And knowing is sometimes enough.” He leaned forward, his voice growing serious. “Listen, boy. Cultivators like the old fool are rare. Most would crush someone like you without a second thought, all in the name of their grand paths or whatever nonsense they spout. But Open Sky…” Rokan paused, shaking his head.

“Be cautious,” Rokan reiterated, his gaze turning stern. “Cultivators like him may appear wise or benevolent, but they stir storms wherever they wander. You have neither rank nor wealth, and you’re still too weak to shoulder their burdens.”

Jin nodded, absorbing the words. Nevertheless, a seed of determination rooted in his heart. He recalled the notion of a brewing tempest, the poisoned well, and the menacing hush that had fallen upon Seta. Perhaps, he thought, these robed adepts heralded the next wave of trial. If that was so, he intended to be ready—sharp-eyed and resolute—no matter which path Sage Open Sky or any cultivator might coax him to tread.