The day began like any other in Seta. The marketplace hummed with life, the air thick with the mingled scents of fresh fish, sun-warmed spices, and damp earth. Vendors called out their wares, voices overlapping in a chaotic yet familiar symphony. Children darted between stalls, their laughter rippling through the morning air like a brook finding its course. Amid this vibrant scene, the small clinic stood as a quiet anchor, its humble walls a sanctuary for those seeking Rokan’s gruff but reliable care.
Jin moved through the clinic with purpose, balancing jars of herbs as he listened for Rokan’s next instruction. Over the past week, he had found himself slipping deeper into the rhythm of the shop — the ebb and flow of patients, the hum of quiet labor, and the sharp edge of Rokan’s barked critiques. His hands moved more steadily now as he measured powders or prepared salves, though Rokan rarely spared him more than a grunt of acknowledgment.
The week had been grueling, his days divided between tending to the shop, deciphering books, and practicing his breathing techniques late into the evening. Despite the weight of exhaustion, Jin could feel the progress in small ways: his balance improved while handling delicate jars, his mind piecing together connections between symptoms and treatments faster than before. Yet, as the morning wore on, an odd sensation prickled at the edges of Jin’s awareness, like the faint shift in air pressure before a storm.
It began without fanfare. The marketplace hummed with life, the vendors engaged in their usual chatter, oblivious to any unusual presence. Jin’s eyes flicked toward the clinic’s doorway, drawn by a feeling he couldn’t name. There was no commotion, no deliberate motion to catch his attention — only the quiet appearance of a man stepping into the shop.
The traveler wore robes the color of an overcast sky, their faint silver embroidery catching the light like distant clouds edged by the sun. The fabric hung loosely but carried an unassuming grace, its wear speaking to years of travel yet unmarred by dirt or fray. A broad bamboo hat shaded his face, concealing his expression while lending him a peculiar stillness. Slung over his back was a staff, its top wrapped in faded silk, more ceremonial than practical but unremarkable enough to pass unnoticed.
He moved without haste, his steps so quiet they seemed to absorb sound rather than create it. Though the marketplace continued unabated outside, Jin felt a strange silence envelop the room as the man’s presence settled in. Nothing about him demanded attention, and yet Jin’s grip tightened on the jar in his hands, his pulse quickening as though sensing an unseen current beneath the surface.
Jin’s gaze lingered, his pulse quickening. There was nothing overtly remarkable about the man, yet his stillness commanded attention. Rokan didn’t even glance up, his hands busy grinding herbs. “Don’t just stand there gawking,” he muttered. “If he’s here for something, he’ll say it.”
The man stepped forward, his movements smooth and unhurried. His presence was like a stone dropped into a calm pond — subtle but rippling outward. He stopped just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet deliberation. Jin tightened his grip on the jar in his hands, the ordinary moment suddenly feeling heavier, sharper, as though the air had shifted to accommodate this stranger.
The man removed his hat, revealing a calm, weathered face and a faint smile. “And here I thought you’d forgotten me, Rokan.”
Rokan leaned back against the workbench, his arms crossed as he regarded the sage with a look that balanced irritation and familiarity. Sage Open Sky sat on a low stool, his bamboo hat resting beside him, the faint embroidery on his robes catching the light with each subtle movement.
“You still insist on dragging your bones across the countryside,” Rokan muttered, his tone sharp but lacking true malice. “What’s next? Enlightenment in a gutter?”
Sage Open Sky chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “And you still insist on chaining yourself to this corner of the world. What is it you always say? ‘The world’s problems aren’t mine.’” His smile deepened. “Yet, here you are, teaching this boy. Or would you deny that as well?”
Rokan snorted, glancing toward Jin, who was pretending to organize jars but was clearly eavesdropping. “The boy’s not a disciple. He’s just… useful.”
“Useful,” Sage Open Sky echoed, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “And here I thought I was the one who made poor excuses for compassion.”
Rokan waved a hand dismissively, though his jaw tightened. “Call it what you want. He works hard and learns fast. That’s all there is to it.”
Sage Open Sky leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp but kind. “You’ve always been stubborn, Rokan. Even when we traveled together, you refused to admit when you cared about something — or someone.”
“That’s because I didn’t,” Rokan shot back, though the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed him. “If you’re here to reminisce, save it. I’ve got work to do.”
The sage’s laughter filled the room, warm and genuine. “Ah, the Rokan I remember — always running from sentiment. But you’ve mellowed, old friend, whether you care to admit it or not.”
Rokan turned away, picking up a pestle as if to resume grinding herbs, though he didn’t actually move to use it. “Mellowed, have I? You sound like a fool.”
“And you sound like someone who doesn’t want to admit he’s found purpose,” Sage Open Sky countered, rising smoothly to his feet. “But I’ll leave you to your denials — for now. The boy has promise, Rokan. Don’t waste it.”
Rokan didn’t reply, but his grip on the pestle tightened, the tension in his shoulders telling more than his words ever could.
Sage Open Sky let the silence linger for a moment before rising smoothly to his feet, his movements deliberate but unhurried. “Well, if you’re done pretending not to care, I’ll see if the boy can rise to the occasion,” he said with a faint smile, glancing toward Jin. “You never were one to admit when you saw potential, Rokan.”
Rokan snorted, setting the pestle down with a sharp clack. “And you never were one to stop meddling.”
Sage Open Sky chuckled lightly, his gaze sharp but kind. “Someone has to keep you honest. Now, let’s see what the boy can do.”
The old Sage turned his gaze toward Jin, his expression inscrutable. The boy froze under the weight of that look, his fingers tightening around the jar he was holding. It was clear he had been listening, though his hands betrayed the nervous tension coursing through him.
“You’ve neglected something, boy,” Sage Open Sky said, his tone calm but firm.
Jin blinked, his mind racing. “Neglected?”
“Tea,” the sage replied with a faint smile. “When a guest enters, isn’t it customary to offer tea?”
Jin flushed, setting the jar down with an audible clink and fumbling toward the small hearth in the corner. The water wasn’t ready, the teapot still cold to the touch. He cursed under his breath, his movements clumsy as he scrambled to make amends.
“Don’t rush,” the Sage said, his voice gentle but steady. “There’s no need to spill more than you can pour.”
Rokan snorted from his place by the workbench. “You’re making the boy soft, Old Fart. He’s here to work, not entertain.”
“And yet,” the sage countered, “this small courtesy reveals much about him.” His gaze returned to Jin, observing every nervous flick of the boy’s hands and the way his shoulders hunched ever so slightly. “He’s attentive, though easily shaken. Sharp, but untrained. And…” He paused, his voice softening. “There’s a burden in him — one he doesn’t yet understand.”
Jin’s back stiffened, though he kept his eyes on the task at hand. The strange sensations the old man’s presence stirred in him hadn’t faded; if anything, they pressed harder, like an invisible weight resting on his chest. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but an unsettling awareness of being seen — truly seen.
The Sage’s gaze lingered on Jin, though his posture remained relaxed, almost casual. As the boy fumbled with the teapot, his movements hurried and clumsy, the sage tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Careful, boy,” he said lightly. “Tea’s no good when half of it ends up on the floor.”
Jin flushed, muttering a quick apology as he steadied his hands. He felt the weight of the sage’s eyes on him, not harsh or probing like Rokan’s, but calm and unyielding, as though the man were seeing things Jin himself didn’t yet understand.
“You’ve picked an interesting one, Rokan,” the Sage said, glancing over his shoulder at the healer. “Physically frail, but I’ve seen worse. He’s got endurance, though. That kind of stubbornness to keep standing when most would give up.”
Rokan grunted, his focus still on the herbs he was grinding. “Stubborn’s one word for it. Reckless is another.”
The sage chuckled. “Reckless, sure. But sharp.” He turned his attention back to Jin, watching the boy’s hands move with growing precision as he prepared the tea. “He sees more than he lets on, doesn’t he? Every glance is a question, though he doesn’t always know what he’s asking.”
Jin’s hands froze for a moment before he carefully poured the tea into the cup. He kept his eyes down, pretending not to hear, though the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed him.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“And spiritually?” Sage Open Sky leaned back, crossing his arms. “A bit of a mess, but aren’t we all? His Qi’s like threads in the wind — scattered, but not broken. It’s got reach, even if his body hasn’t caught up.”
Rokan finally set down the pestle, glancing at Jin before returning his attention to the sage. “You’re wasting your breath. He’s here to work, not to be coddled.”
“Who’s coddling?” He replied with a grin. “I’m just saying what’s obvious to anyone paying attention. The boy’s got promise — though I imagine he’d rather not be hearing this right now.”
Jin stiffened, nearly dropping the teacup as he set it down on the table. The old man accepted it with a nod, his smile broadening. “Thank you, Jin. And relax, would you? A bit of spilled tea never hurt anyone.”
The day wore on, the clinic bustling with the steady rhythm of patients coming and going. Jin moved through his tasks with growing confidence, though he still faltered under the sharp gaze of Rokan and the ever-present awareness of Sage Open Sky’s silent observations. The Sage had made himself comfortable in a corner, sipping tea with the easy grace of someone entirely at ease, yet his watchful eyes missed nothing.
When a gaunt man with trembling hands and a faint sheen of sweat on his brow entered, Rokan moved to attend him, but Sage Open Sky raised a hand, stopping him mid-step.
“Let the boy take this one,” the sage said, his tone calm but firm.
Rokan turned, his brows knitting in irritation. “The boy’s still green. You want him to misdiagnose someone into the grave?”
“The patient’s not dying, Rokan,” the Sage replied with a faint smile. “And you’re here to correct him, aren’t you? Or have you gone soft in your old age?”
Rokan growled under his breath, crossing his arms. “You meddle too much, Old Fart. Fine. But when he fumbles, it’s your monkey show, not mine.” He shot Jin a glare. “Don’t mess it up, boy.”
Jin swallowed hard, stepping forward as the patient sat down. The man’s hands trembled faintly, and his breathing was shallow but not labored. Jin’s gaze sharpened, taking in the pallor of his skin, the slight puffiness around his eyes, and the irregular discoloration on his fingernails.
“What do you see?” Sage Open Sky’s voice was calm, yet it pressed Jin to think beyond the obvious.
Jin hesitated, then spoke, his voice steadying as he pieced together the details. “His hands tremble, but it’s rhythmic, like a wave — constant, not sporadic. His breathing is shallow but unlabored. And his nails…” He leaned closer, noting the faint bluish tint near the beds. “The discoloration suggests stagnant energy in his extremities, likely tied to prolonged exposure to damp conditions. If he’s a fisherman, it could also be the chill from wet clothes sapping his Qi.”
The Sage nodded slightly, a glint of approval in his eyes. “And your conclusion?”
Jin took a slow breath. “The treatment should focus on warming his Qi and unblocking the stagnation. Dried firethorn berries, boiled with thornroot bark, to stimulate circulation and dispel the cold clinging to his meridians. He’ll need an infusion of dew nettle petals, steeped with powdered jadeflower, to restore balance to his internal energy. As for the long term…” Jin trailed off, glancing at Rokan for confirmation.
Rokan grunted but said nothing, letting Jin continue.
“For the long term,” Jin ventured, “he should wear Qi-insulating wraps on his hands and wrists while working and drink elderbark tea every morning to protect his core from dampness.”
Sage Open Sky leaned back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “A thorough answer. And the method?”
Jin’s brow furrowed. “The firethorn and thornroot must be boiled together for no less than two turns of an hourglass. Overheating will scorch their properties, making them ineffective. The nettle petals and jadeflower must steep separately before combining the decoctions to avoid muting their effects.”
“Not bad,” Rokan muttered, stepping forward at last. “A little long-winded, but the boy’s got the right idea. He’ll refine it eventually.”
Sage Open Sky chuckled, his expression both amused and impressed. “He’s sharper than you let on, Rokan. But…” His gaze drifted back to Jin, softening. “The boy’s awareness is remarkable, but his constitution…” He trailed off, his gaze shifting back to Jin. “His body is fragile, barely holding together under the weight of his own efforts. If he is to survive in a harsher world, he will need better solutions than breathing exercises.”
Rokan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his silence heavy with unspoken thought. He waved Jin off with a sharp motion. “That’s enough, boy. Go tend to your reading or sweep the backroom — just stay out of earshot.”
Jin hesitated, his gaze flicking between Rokan and Sage Open Sky. The sage’s expression was calm, almost amused, but there was an undercurrent in his presence that made Jin’s chest tighten. He knew better than to argue, though. With a muttered acknowledgment, he retreated to the small workspace behind the shop, where a stack of books and scrolls awaited his attention.
The soft creak of the door signaled the exit of the last patient, a bundle of remedies clutched in their hands. Rokan moved to the doorway, casting a glance at the quiet street beyond before pulling the wooden shutters closed. The faint clatter of the lock echoed through the clinic as he turned back, his face set in its usual gruff lines.
“All right, Old Fart,” Rokan muttered, crossing his arms. “You’ve been chewing at something since you walked in. Spill it.”
Sage Open Sky chuckled, setting down his empty teacup with deliberate care. “Always straight to the point, aren’t you? I’d have thought your years here might’ve softened you.”
“You didn’t come all this way to chat about my temperament,” Rokan replied. His voice was sharp, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “What’s on your mind?”
The sage leaned back, his staff resting against the wall. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze drifting toward the backroom where Jin had disappeared. “The boy. You see it, don’t you?”
Rokan’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing, his silence heavy with unspoken thought.
“He’s more than what you tell yourself,” Sage Open Sky continued, his tone light but pointed. “That sharpness of his isn’t just chance. It’s something you can’t ignore forever.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know,” Rokan grumbled, his hands tightening into fists. “The boy’s been through enough. I won’t pile the world’s weight onto his shoulders just because you see potential.”
The tension between them ebbed, replaced by the easy rhythm of two old friends exchanging words. They spoke of mundane things — the bitter herbs Rokan swore had lost their potency, the peculiar weather patterns Sage Open Sky had encountered during his travels. For a moment, the clinic seemed like any other small-town shop, filled with the chatter of two men who had seen far too much of the world.
But then Rokan’s expression shifted. His sharpness returned, cutting through the air like the edge of a blade. He leaned forward, his arms braced against the workbench as his gaze pinned the sage in place.
“How bad is it?” he asked, his voice low but weighted.
Sage Open Sky blinked, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “How bad is what?”
Rokan’s scowl darkened, his irritation cutting through the air like a blade. “Stop dancing around it, Old Fool. You crawl out from whatever hole you’ve been wandering, telling me to train a street rat I barely know for some storm you’ve seen coming. If you’re not going to tell me what’s out there, how the hell am I supposed to prepare the boy?”
The sage sighed, his posture shifting slightly as he leaned on his staff. For a moment, his carefree demeanor seemed to falter, replaced by something heavier. “Rokan,” he began, his tone gentler now, “not everything can be planned for. The world is always shifting, always changing. I can only see fragments of what might be.”
“And what did you see?” Rokan pressed, his knuckles whitening against the wood of the bench.
Sage Open Sky tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “A storm,” he said at last. “One that stretches far beyond this town. Forces are moving, Rokan — things that neither you nor I can stop. The boy… he’s not the answer to it, but he might survive it. Isn’t that enough?”
Rokan’s jaw tightened, his gaze hard. “No. If I’m going to break him trying to make him strong, I need to know it’s worth the cost.”
“It’s always worth the cost to give someone a chance,” Sage Open Sky replied, his voice softening. “But if you want specifics, I can’t give you those. All I know is that the boy has the potential to endure — and that’s more than most can claim.”
Rokan growled under his breath, his frustration evident. “You’ve always been vague, Old Fart. One of these days, your riddles are going to get someone killed.”
Sage Open Sky tilted his head, his expression thoughtful but shadowed. “The crimson mist has been stirring in the north,” he said, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of unspoken dread. “And the empires… well, they’ve never needed much of an excuse to act, have they?”
Rokan’s jaw tightened, his fists pressing against the edge of the workbench. “The crimson mist? That’s not my concern. That’s sect business.”
“It will be everyone’s concern soon enough,” Open Sky replied, his gaze steady. “You can feel it, can’t you? The world is shifting. The boy may not be a warrior, but he doesn’t have the luxury of remaining unprepared. Train him, Rokan — not for glory, but for survival.”
Rokan’s lips curled into a half-snarl, his frustration boiling over. “You talk as if I’ve been twiddling my thumbs. I’ve been working on the breathing forms, building his foundation. But if his body fails, there’s nothing more I can do.”
“You can teach him the forms,” Open Sky said, stepping closer, his voice low but insistent. “The ones I taught you. Not to make him a fighter, but to make him whole. To give him the clarity to see his own path, even if it leads him away from you.”
Rokan’s glare could have burned through stone. “You think I haven’t thought of that? You think I don’t know what you’re pushing me toward? The boy’s Qi is frayed; his body is weak. But fine. For the sake of your damned future, I’ll try.”
Open Sky smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of weariness. “That’s all I ask.”
Without another word, the sage retrieved his staff, nodding briefly to Rokan before turning toward the door. He moved with the same quiet grace as before, slipping out into the night without so much as the creak of the door.
Rokan stood in the silence he left behind, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Troublesome old fool,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The room seemed larger without Open Sky in it, though heavier somehow, as if the sage’s words had seeped into the walls.
Grumbling under his breath, Rokan sat down at the workbench, pulling a worn notebook from a hidden drawer. The cover was scuffed, its edges softened by age. He flipped it open, his eyes scanning the pages filled with diagrams and notes — forms and motions sketched out in meticulous detail.
“These damned exercises,” Rokan muttered, a faint glint of both irritation and reverence in his tone. They had been a gift from Open Sky, a method for understanding the flow of Qi in every living being. Slowly, he began outlining the steps, his pen scratching against the paper. The forms would test Jin, perhaps even break him, but they might also offer him a chance — one more chance to rise above his frailty.
For a moment, Rokan paused, staring at the diagram of a simple motion that mimicked the flow of water. His mind wandered back to the first time Open Sky had taught him, and he let out a soft, bitter chuckle. “You’re going to be the death of me, Old Sky.”