The first light of dawn crept over the hills, spilling a pale gold hue across the fields. Jin followed Rokan in silence, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. The cedar groves loomed in the distance, their silhouettes stark against the softening sky. Though Jin was accustomed to early mornings from his street days, the journey weighed on his underfed frame. Each step felt heavier than the last, the dew-laden grass soaking through his worn shoes and numbing his feet.
Rokan moved with purpose, his sharp eyes scanning the ground as though the earth itself whispered secrets to him. Jin trailed a step behind, his breaths growing shallower. The chill of the air clung to his skin, a sharp reminder of how far he still had to go in regaining his strength. But he pushed forward, his determination outpacing the complaints of his body, each crunch of grass beneath his feet a quiet act of defiance.
“Observation,” Rokan began without looking back, “is more than seeing. It’s about understanding. The world tells you everything if you bother to listen.” He crouched beside a cluster of small, pale-green leaves, his movements deliberate. “Take these, for example.”
Jin knelt beside him, his gaze fixed on the plant. He recognized it from one of the dried specimens Rokan had shown him in the workshop. Its soft, rounded leaves and serrated edges were familiar, but here, alive and vibrant, the plant seemed to breathe with its own quiet life. The dew clinging to the leaves refracted the early light, forming small, perfect spheres. Its faint earthy aroma reminded Jin of the rain-soaked earth after a storm.
Rokan’s fingers hovered over the leaves, his sharp eyes narrowing. “What do you notice?” he asked, his voice cutting through Jin’s thoughts.
Jin hesitated but leaned closer, the details sharpening in his view. “The leaves are healthy,” he ventured. “No spots or discoloration.”
“Good start,” Rokan grunted. “But look closer.”
Jin frowned, leaning in further. The way the dew beaded along the surface caught his attention — clear and even, a sign of balance. The faint aroma carried a freshness, almost like renewal. “The dew… it’s clear. And it smells… fresh. That means the soil here is clean, right?”
Rokan nodded, his gaze softening slightly. He reached for another plant nearby, its leaves curled at the edges, the dew irregular and cloudy. “And what about these?”
Jin studied them, his brow furrowing deeper. “The dew’s uneven, and the leaves look weaker. The soil must be spoiled.”
A faint smirk tugged at Rokan’s lips. “Exactly. The soil speaks through the plants, boy. Trust your senses. They’ll tell you more than your eyes alone.”
Jin nodded, his fingers brushing the leaves again. The lesson resonated deeply, a quiet awakening stirring within him. The plants seemed alive in a way he had never noticed before, each carrying a story he was beginning to learn how to read.
Jin’s legs still ached from the trek back as the sun climbed higher, casting long rays over the clinic. Rokan had set a grueling pace on purpose, Jin suspected, though the older man said nothing about it.
“Strength comes with use,” Rokan had muttered absently during their return, his tone more thoughtful than harsh. The streets of Seta were already bustling with early activity by the time they arrived, and the scent of drying herbs in the workshop mingled with the sharper tang of remedies being prepared.
As Jin swept the floor, his sore muscles protested with every motion, but he forced himself to push through. Rokan’s words echoed faintly in his mind, suggesting that perhaps physical conditioning would be his next lesson once he’d proven himself capable with the books and herbs.
The clinic bustled with activity by mid-morning. Townspeople filed in with complaints ranging from persistent coughs to minor injuries. Jin moved through the space with quiet purpose, his eyes darting between Rokan’s brisk movements and the patients’ weary faces. He noted how Rokan’s hands seemed to work on instinct, mixing powders and grinding herbs with unerring precision. Yet, his gaze never missed the subtle details — a slight tremor in a man’s hand, the faint flush of fever on a child’s cheeks.
“Hold this,” Rokan barked, thrusting a bowl into Jin’s hands. The concoction inside smelled sharp, almost medicinal, its pale green hue swirling as Jin steadied it. Rokan added a final pinch of crushed leaves before nodding. “Take it to the woman sitting by the window.”
Jin approached the patient, a frail elderly woman hunched on a stool. Her breathing was shallow, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “Here,” he said gently, offering the bowl. She took it with trembling hands, her eyes meeting his briefly. For a moment, Jin hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Your hands are shaking a lot,” he said, noting the way her fingers trembled even as they gripped the bowl. “And your breathing… it’s shallow.” He paused, hesitant to say more. Diagnosing felt beyond him, unearned, yet the details nagged at his thoughts. “Does it hurt when you breathe? Or after you eat?”
The woman blinked, startled, and glanced at Rokan. The healer, busy grinding herbs, didn’t look up but spoke nonetheless. “Speak less to patients unless you’re certain, boy. Guessing helps no one.”
His tone was sharp, but after a pause, he added gruffly, “Still, not bad for noticing. She’s dehydrated and likely malnourished, overexerting herself when her body clearly can’t handle it. Not uncommon for someone in her position, but dangerous all the same. She’ll need proper rest and consistent meals, or this will worsen..”
The woman flushed slightly, murmuring an excuse, but Jin’s attention remained on her. He set the empty bowl aside and knelt to pick up the herb pouch Rokan handed him. “You’ll need to add this to your meals. Just a pinch,” Jin said, his tone steady. The woman nodded, her expression softening.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the clinic in warm amber light. The last patient had left, and the room was quiet save for the faint creak of the workbench as Rokan leaned against it. Jin sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through dried herbs, their earthy aroma filling the air.
“Not bad today,” Rokan said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. “You didn’t spill anything, and you didn’t faint. Progress.”
Jin glanced up, unsure if the words were praise or sarcasm. He said nothing, waiting as Rokan continued.
“That woman… the one you noticed. Hands shaking, barely breathing right. You saw what most would miss. That’s worth more than fancy tools or books, boy. You’re learning to see.”
Jin nodded, his chest tightening with quiet pride. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel fulfilled without a full belly or a roof over his head, but something in Rokan’s words struck a chord. He returned his focus to the herbs, the simple act grounding him.
Rokan straightened, stretching briefly before heading for the door. “Clean up and rest,” he said, pausing at the threshold. But after a moment, he turned back. “Actually, forget that. Get your coat. We’re heading out.”
Jin blinked, startled. “Out?”
“You heard me,” Rokan grunted. “You need to learn more about observation, and you won’t get that just sitting here counting herbs. We’re going to the Harbor — to one of the better restaurants this district can offer.”
Jin frowned but quickly rose, his curiosity outweighing his fatigue. As he followed Rokan into the dimming streets, the mention of a restaurant struck a chord of memory.
The restaurant Rokan chose wasn’t unfamiliar to Jin, at least by the smell of the food they served. Jin was probably more familiar with its back alleys than its dining area. There had been nights when Jin, failing to earn any coins, scavenged the leftovers tossed behind places like this, competing with rats for scraps. Other times, he’d scrubbed dishes or hauled water for the promise of a simple meal. Those days felt both distant and uncomfortably close as he followed Rokan inside.
Judging from how the attendant greeted the old man, Jin could tell Rokan was a regular. He didn’t need to say a word before food began arriving at their table — a variety of small dishes that filled the air with savory and spiced aromas. Jin recognized some of the dishes from a distance, others he couldn’t even name.
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“Sample everything,” Rokan said, gesturing to the spread. “Tell me what you taste.”
Jin hesitated, picking up his chopsticks to try a small piece of something crispy and fragrant. “It’s salty,” he began, then paused, frowning. “And… there’s something bitter at the end?”
Rokan grunted. “Not wrong, but not right either. Try again. Pay attention this time.”
Jin tried another dish, a tangy, soft morsel that left a faint heat on his tongue. The flavors were more complex than anything he’d ever scavenged, and it unsettled him how difficult it was to put them into words.
“A healer,” Rokan said, breaking his silence, “needs to understand what they’re tasting. Herbs, ingredients, remedies — all of it starts here. If you can’t describe a flavor, how will you know what you’re using? Or if it’s gone bad?”
Jin nodded slowly, focusing harder on the next bite, but frustration simmered beneath the surface. Every word Rokan uttered felt like a challenge, and Jin found himself struggling to meet the healer’s exacting standards. The flavors were complex, layered, and elusive — a far cry from the simple scraps he had scavenged in the past. Each attempt to describe them was met with Rokan’s disapproving grunts or curt corrections.
“Try again,” Rokan muttered, watching as Jin took another bite. “Don’t just guess. Think. What does it remind you of?”
“It’s salty,” Jin began, then paused, his brow furrowing. “And… there’s something sharp, like…” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Like pickled ginger?” Rokan supplied, his tone both impatient and probing. Jin nodded reluctantly, feeling a pang of disappointment in himself. Rokan sighed but gestured toward another dish. “And this? What do you taste?”
The night stretched on as Jin struggled to articulate the flavors and textures, his mind working as hard as his tongue. Each dish revealed nuances he hadn’t noticed before — a hint of bitterness here, a touch of sweetness there. Despite Rokan’s gruff demeanor, Jin could sense the old man’s satisfaction growing, faint as it was.
As Jin wrestled with the intricacies of a particularly rich stew, Rokan leaned back, his gaze drifting to the other patrons. “You’ve used your tongue,” he said, voice low but firm. “Now, use your ears. Tell me about them.”
Jin blinked, glancing at the nearby tables. The room hummed with quiet conversation, laughter, and the clatter of utensils. At first, he tried to focus on the words being spoken, catching fragments of sentences here and there, but they were disjointed and meaningless on their own. His brow furrowed, frustration bubbling as the effort seemed fruitless.
Rokan’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp but measured. “Stop listening to the words. Watch them.”
Jin hesitated but shifted his gaze to a man at the corner table. His voice rose and fell with animated gestures — a hand slapping the table, his fingers stabbing the air as though pointing blame. Slowly, Jin began to see the frustration behind the words, the anger carried in the tense line of the man’s shoulders and the sharpness of his movements.
“That one,” Jin murmured, nodding toward the man. “He’s angry… no, frustrated. The way he slams his hand on the table… and his tone, it’s sharp, like he’s blaming someone.”
Rokan gave a curt nod. “Good. What about her?” He gestured subtly to a woman across the room, her back straight, her fingers toying with the edge of her cup.
Jin frowned, watching closely. “She’s quiet… but tense. Her shoulders are stiff, and she keeps looking at the door. Like she’s waiting for someone who isn’t coming.”
A rare smile tugged at Rokan’s lips. “You’re learning, boy. Observation isn’t just about plants and food. People speak in more than words, and it’s your job to listen.”
Jin nodded, the lesson settling deeply. For the rest of the evening, he watched and listened, noting the unspoken stories around him as much as the flavors on his plate. By the time they left, the world outside the restaurant felt richer, fuller, and brimming with possibilities he hadn’t noticed before.
Rokan leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he gestured toward Jin’s empty plate. “You’ll cook like this one day,” he said bluntly, nodding back toward the bustling kitchen behind them. “If you can’t prepare food with precision, how will you handle herbs or remedies?”
Jin froze for a moment, his mind replaying the complexities of the dishes he had just tasted. Each bite had carried layers of flavors and textures, a balance he hadn’t known was possible. The thought of replicating that level of care and mastery sent a flicker of doubt through him. “I’ll try,” he murmured softly, resolve creeping into his voice.
“Don’t try. Do,” Rokan retorted, his tone gruff and unwavering.
He leaned forward slightly, his expression unyielding. “A healer seeks to understand their patients through their words, their pulse of Qi, their body, their scents — everything you can sense. Same as a cook understands food through every sense. But it’s more complicated for us. Patients lie, boy. Always have, always will. Nobody wants to admit they’ve been out mongering or explain why their limb gave out when they were doing something they shouldn’t have been.”
Jin absorbed the words, his frown deepening. He glanced back toward the warm glow of the restaurant’s doorway, his mind churning with new understanding. The plates, the people, the unspoken nuances — they were all lessons waiting to be learned.
As they walked back toward the workshop, the streets of the Harbor buzzed with life, the clamor of merchants closing stalls mingling with the laughter of sailors spilling out of taverns. The night air was sharp and cool, but Jin barely noticed it, his mind still turning over Rokan’s words. The parallels between food and healing seemed obvious now, yet daunting in their complexity.
“You’re quiet,” Rokan said, his tone more observant than accusatory.
“I’m thinking,” Jin replied, glancing at the old man. “About what you said. Food… patients… understanding what’s not said.”
Rokan gave a curt nod, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked. “Good. Thinking’s where it starts. But don’t stop there. You’ve got to act on it, boy. Reflection without action is as useless as an empty pot.”
They passed a group of dockhands sharing a meal by the light of a lantern. Jin slowed, his eyes drawn to the interplay of their gestures and voices. The way one man gestured with his fork, punctuating a laugh, while another leaned back with a quieter smile. Even without hearing their words, the camaraderie was clear. Jin’s chest tightened, a flicker of something unfamiliar passing through him.
“See something?” Rokan asked, his voice low.
Jin hesitated, then nodded. “Noticed how they move. Their voices carry loud, but… it’s not just the sound. It’s the way they hold themselves. Like they trust each other.”
Rokan grunted. “And if one of them didn’t?”
Jin blinked, his gaze sharpening. He studied the group again, noting how their postures mirrored each other — except for one man sitting slightly apart, his shoulders hunched, his hand gripping his bowl tightly. “That one,” Jin murmured. “He’s… apart. Like he’s there, but not.”
Rokan’s smirk was faint but approving. “Told you. People speak in more than words. Learn to see it everywhere.”
By the time they reached the workshop, Jin’s legs ached, but his mind felt sharper. Rokan unlocked the door with his usual brisk efficiency, motioning Jin inside. “Clean up. Then rest. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can start putting these lessons to use.”
Jin’s legs carried a dull ache as he settled at the small table that evening, the books and scrolls Rokan had left for him spread across the surface. The day’s exertion lingered in his muscles, but his mind was restless, replaying the lessons from the hills, the clinic, and the restaurant. Each moment seemed to echo the same message: to observe was to understand.
As he traced the characters on the scroll, Jin’s thoughts drifted back to the tang of ginger in one of the dishes Rokan had pressed him to describe. That sharpness, elusive at first, was no different from noticing the faint tremor in a patient’s hand or the irregular beading of dew on a tainted plant. Every detail, no matter how small, spoke volumes — if one had the senses to catch it.
The faint creak of the floorboards above reminded him that Rokan was likely preparing for the next day. Jin paused, staring at the symbols in front of him. The healer’s lessons weren’t just tasks to complete; they were pieces of a larger puzzle. He could taste it now, in the lingering flavors of the food, see it in the tired faces of the patients, feel it in the soil beneath the plants. Observation was not about mastering one thing — it was about weaving everything together.
He let out a slow breath, the exhaustion in his body blending with a quiet sense of purpose. The day had been long, and his journey still stretched far ahead, but for the first time, the path felt clear. Turning the page of the scroll, Jin let the faint scent of ink and herbs guide him forward, the night stretching around him like a canvas waiting to be filled.He paused, staring at the scroll before him, the faint scent of ink and paper mingling with the lingering aroma of herbs from the workshop. A rare smile tugged at his lips as gratitude welled up in his chest. He didn’t know what the next day would bring, but for the first time, he felt ready to face it.
Jin turned the page, the soft rustle breaking the quiet. There was so much to learn, so many perspectives to explore. The night stretched on, but Jin didn’t feel the weight of it. Instead, he felt joy, a quiet, steady joy that carried him forward.
Up above, Rokan sat in the dim light of his quarters, his sharp eyes staring out the small window. He’d stopped sensing the boy below, certain that Jin was absorbed in his books. A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face. The boy had potential — rough, unpolished, but undeniable.
Rokan leaned back, his thoughts already moving forward. Tomorrow would bring new lessons, new challenges. Jin needed to sharpen more than his tongue and eyes; his body and spirit would have to follow. But for now, the healer allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. The boy was learning — one step at a time.