The morning air in the clinic was crisp, carrying the faint tang of herbs drying on the racks. Rokan’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and unyielding. “Breathe, boy. Deep. Focus on your core.”
Jin struggled to hold his stance, his legs trembling under the weight of his body. The new regimen demanded more than just strength—it required mastery of the unseen, a rhythm and flow that wove each movement into the next like water cascading over stones. Unlike the earlier routines, which had been about focus and control, this regimen was a test of balance and precision, a silent dialogue between discipline and instinct. Even the slightest misstep—a falter in his breath, a hesitation in his motion—sent ripples of imbalance through his body, breaking the delicate rhythm.
Rokan circled him like a hawk, his piercing eyes catching every subtle error, whether it was the uneven tilt of Jin’s shoulders or a shallow exhale disrupting his flow. "Too rigid," Rokan barked. "Softness and strength must coexist. Flow, boy—don’t force it." Jin gritted his teeth, the weight of Rokan’s words cutting as sharply as the ache burning in his calves. This wasn’t just training; it was transformation, a relentless push into uncharted territory, where the line between mastery and failure blurred with every trembling motion.
“Smooth transitions, boy. Control the flow,” he barked, his tone cutting but underscored by a quiet respect for Jin’s effort.
Jin’s arms trembled as he fought to keep his balance, the motion of each form disrupting the fragile rhythm he was desperate to maintain. His breaths came uneven, caught between the need for control and the burn in his chest. A step faltered, his foot striking the floor too heavily, and the ripple of imbalance traveled upward, breaking the flow entirely.
Rokan’s sharp eyes caught the mistake before Jin could recover.
“Too stiff. Your movements clash like a stormy sea. Start again.” The words landed like a hammer on Jin’s already strained focus. His fingers twitched as he reset, the ache in his calves a persistent reminder of his failings.
Each transition demanded precision and grace, yet Jin’s body rebelled against him. His legs, already numbed and quaking from half an hour of relentless running through the Spice Market, buckled under the demand for softness. Breathing came in gasps, his chest burning as he tried to force a steady rhythm. His shoulders twitched as his movements faltered, each attempt to move gently undone by the fatigue coursing through his frame.
Rokan’s corrections, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce Jin’s resolve like a thousand needles. Frustration bubbled up, and Jin snapped, “How am I supposed to move smoothly after you’ve run me ragged?” But Rokan’s only response was a steady, unrelenting glare. Through clenched teeth and trembling limbs, Jin pressed on, the fire of exhaustion forging his resolve anew.
“Again,” Rokan barked, gesturing for Jin to reset the sequence. Sweat trickled down Jin’s brow, stinging his eyes, but he pushed forward, his determination etched into every strained muscle. His arms moved with the flow of water, his legs rooted like ancient trees, as he sought to embody the balance Rokan demanded. The motions weren’t just practice; they were discipline given form, a language his body was still learning to speak.
Rokan grumbled, his voice carrying the weight of years hardened by disappointment. "Young boys always have breath to complain, yet none to move with grace. It’s as though you’re more willing to die for your kingdom than to improve yourself for it." The words struck Jin like a blow, the truth they carried gnawing at his pride. His fists clenched involuntarily, and for a moment, the sting of Rokan’s remark felt sharper than the ache in his limbs.
But instead of lashing out, Jin redoubled his efforts. He threw himself into the forms, every motion more precise, more fluid, as though driven by a fire that refused to be extinguished.
The burn in his chest became a steady rhythm, guiding his movements as he transitioned smoothly from one form to the next. Rokan’s eyes lingered, his expression unreadable, but a faint nod betrayed his approval. For Jin, the remark had cut deep, but it also ignited a resolve that turned frustration into fuel for growth.
When the session finally ended, Jin collapsed onto the cool stone floor, his chest heaving. Rokan tossed a damp cloth at him without looking, his gruff voice grating but not unkind. “Rest. You’ll need it.” Jin caught the cloth with a tired grin, but his smile faltered as Rokan’s voice cut through the momentary relief.
“This isn’t just about surviving anymore, boy. That last regimen built your strength and stamina to endure like a common man,” Rokan said, his tone quiet but heavy with purpose. “But this… this is the foundation to make you more than that. To prepare you for whatever storms that doddering old fool saw coming in your future.”
Jin’s grin faded entirely, replaced by a flicker of something deeper—a mix of resolve and apprehension. Watching as the old healer returned to grinding herbs, the rhythm of the mortar steady and unrelenting, Jin wiped the sweat from his brow. He lay there for a moment longer, letting the weight of Rokan’s words settle in, before silently vowing to rise stronger tomorrow.
By midday, Rokan handed him a list of supplies to retrieve from the Market Square. Though seemingly mundane, Jin welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs and clear his thoughts, away from the books and the chores that Rokan always pushed on him.
The Market Square was a riot of colors and noise. Vendors called out their wares, their voices competing with the clatter of carts and the chatter of townsfolk. Jin weaved through the crowd, his senses alive with the mingling scents of fresh produce, dried spices, and the acrid tang of smoldering incense. His muscles twinging with every step he took. His errand to procure pots and jars felt mundane, but the charged undercurrent in the air hinted at something darker.
Groups of townsfolk clustered around various stalls, their animated whispers creating an undercurrent of tension. "Did you hear about the people camping outside the gates?" a butcher asked, slicing meat with methodical precision. "They’re from the villages nearby, or so they claim."
A spice vendor, packing dried peppers into sacks, leaned toward her neighbor. "Claim? You mean they’re not? I heard their homes were swallowed by some red mist—whole families just gone. And now they’re here, expecting charity."
The potter across the way folded his arms, his brow furrowed. "Charity? They’re bringing trouble, if you ask me. What if they’re cursed? I heard strange noises in the hills last night. Could be connected."
The vibrant market seemed dimmed by the weight of their words. Even as merchants called out their wares, a palpable unease spread through the square, leaving the lively bartering tinged with suspicion. Some townspeople averted their eyes from the refugees’ plight; others whispered behind cupped hands, their pity soured by dread.
Jin paused near a fruit stall, feigning interest in a basket of apples as he listened. "They should move on," a man muttered nearby. "They’ll bring the mist here with them."
"Move on to where?" came the sharp reply of a woman adjusting a basket on her hip. "No one knows what they’ve seen. Best to keep our distance."
Jin’s frown deepened as he absorbed their words, his brush moving swiftly across his journal. The murmurs of the crowd painted a grim picture: fear had already begun to twist truth into something darker, fracturing trust among a people who had once shared the same gates.
Beyond the whispers, Jin caught glimpses of the townspeople near the gate, their faces tight with unease as they watched groups of haggard villagers arrive. The newcomers’ clothes hung in tatters, their eyes hollow from sleepless nights and the torment of their journey.
Outside the gates, the villagers had begun setting up makeshift camps, their presence a stark reminder of the chaos beyond the town’s walls. Townspeople murmured among themselves, their gossip laced with fear and suspicion. "Why don’t they move on?" a man muttered under his breath. "What if they bring the mist here?"
Jin slowed his steps, straining to catch more. Around him, snippets of conversation painted a chaotic picture—tales of hamlets vanishing overnight, flocks of displaced people gathering at Seta’s gates, their faces hollow with fear. The stories varied, each more outlandish than the last, but the thread of dread running through them was undeniable. He pulled out his journal, scribbling fragments of what he heard, his frown deepening as he noted the inconsistencies. Fear, he realized, was already twisting the truth, fracturing the community’s fragile trust.
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Back at the clinic, Rokan’s voice snapped Jin from his thoughts. “About time you got home, boy,” the healer scolded, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jin’s distracted movements. “Focus, boy. Panic feeds on idle minds.”
Jin flinched at the sharpness of the tone, quickly setting the jars and pots on the counter. “Forgive me, Uncle, I got held up,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. When Rokan’s glare deepened, Jin explained, “The market was a mess. People were talking about the refugees at the gate… and the mist.”
Rokan’s hand paused over a pestle, his jaw tightening. “So you wasted time listening to gossip?”
“It wasn’t just gossip,” Jin replied, his voice steady but quiet. “They’re saying whole villages have vanished. The refugees… they’re haggard, terrified. It’s not just talk anymore, Uncle.”
The old healer’s fingers clenched around the pestle as if to grind it to dust. “I know what they’re saying,” he growled. “But letting your mind wander to fears you can’t fix won’t help anyone.”
Jin hesitated, seeing the storm brewing behind Rokan’s eyes. “It’s true, then? The crimson mist is active again?”
Rokan’s gaze sharpened like a blade, cutting through the air between them. For a moment, he said nothing, then spoke with a voice low and measured. “What it is, or isn’t, doesn’t change our work here. Fear’s poison, boy. It spreads like fire and burns everything it touches. Focus on what’s in front of you before you add to the chaos.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the shuffle of feet and hushed murmurs. Jin glanced out the window to see a group of haggard villagers, escorted by guardsmen, passing by the clinic.
Their clothes were torn, their faces drawn with exhaustion. “Driven from their homes,” one of the guards explained to a bystander. “The mist came in the night, bringing… things.”
Rokan’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, watching the refugees disappear up the road. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the rhythm of his grinding herbs, now harsher, more deliberate.
He turned to his shelves, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he gathered jars and herbs.
That evening, the lamplight flickered weakly, its glow casting restless shadows that danced along the clinic’s shelves. Jin leaned over a stack of ancient tomes, his fingers tracing the faded ink on brittle pages, the faint smell of aged parchment mingling with the earthy tang of drying herbs. Each page crackled faintly as he turned it, his breath shallow with anticipation.
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The words he had overheard curled in his mind, uncoiling like a serpent poised to strike. "The coming storm," Sage Open Sky had said, his tone as enigmatic as the words themselves. Jin's eyes drifted to a passage in the brittle tome before him, where jagged script described a mist that consumed and altered everything it touched. The ink seemed to shimmer under the lamplight, and his fingers hesitated over the page, as though the text carried the faint pulse of something alive.
The fragmented lines painted an eerie image, too close to the murmurs he had heard in the market—entire villages swallowed, families erased, their names and lives dissolved into whispers.
Rising abruptly, Jin clutched the book to his chest, his breath shallow as he crossed the room to Rokan. "Look at this," he said, thrusting the tome forward, his voice edged with urgency. "It’s not just talk, Uncle. The mist—there are patterns here, written accounts that it’s happened before."
Rokan barely glanced at the page before brushing it aside with a grunt. "Patterns? Evidence? Bah. Just because it’s written doesn’t make it truth. A boy like you should know better than to cling to ghost stories."
Jin’s frustration boiled over, his voice rising despite himself. "And if it’s not a ghost story? What if it’s real, and we’re ignoring it?"
Rokan slammed his pestle down onto the mortar, the sound cracking through the room. "We’ll do nothing we haven’t already," he barked, his voice grinding like stone. "The world is full of fearmongers. Don’t waste your time adding to their chorus. Focus on what matters."
Jin’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the weight of the old man’s words settling heavily on his shoulders. "Uncle," he pressed, his voice trembling with both anger and conviction, "it’s not just the mist. The townspeople are breaking. Their fear—it’s poisoning them, twisting them into something unrecognizable. They look at the refugees and see enemies, not people. Can’t you see what’s happening?"
Rokan’s brow furrowed, his pestle stilling mid-grind. For a moment, the tension between them hung thick in the air. Finally, the old man growled, his voice low and deliberate. "And what do you expect me to do about it, boy? I’m no saint to calm their minds or mend their hearts. Leave such delusions to others."
Jin met his gaze, his own eyes blazing with resolve. "We can’t ignore it. The fear is spreading faster than the mist itself. If it festers, the town will tear itself apart long before the mist ever arrives."
Rokan’s jaw tightened, his silence thick with disapproval before he spoke, his voice sharp and final. "Enough, boy. Let the townspeople handle their own fears. You’ve got training to focus on, and this nonsense will only distract you. Work on what’s in front of you, not whispers from the market."
Jin’s fingers tightened around the edges of the book, his knuckles white as he flipped a page with more force than necessary. His eyes darted over the text, though the words blurred in his frustration. He glanced toward Rokan, who busied himself at the mortar, his grinding motions deliberately unhurried.
"What aren’t you saying?" Jin muttered under his breath, the question burning on his tongue but never reaching his lips. He leaned closer to the book, the flickering lamplight catching the tension in his furrowed brow, as if trying to read answers that weren’t there.
Rokan’s silence filled the room, heavy and impenetrable, and Jin bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing his exasperation like bitter medicine.
The day after, the Spice Market swirled with the heavy murmur of unease, voices thick with fear and distrust. Beneath the din of hawkers advertising their wares, conversations leaned toward whispers, as though speaking too loudly might invite the calamity closer.
A spice vendor’s voice carried above the muted hum, sharp and indignant. “They camp outside our gates, expecting kindness. What kindness did they show when their own villages burned? Perhaps they welcomed the mist.”
Nearby, a butcher slammed his cleaver onto his chopping block, startling a pair of customers. “Bah, mist or no mist, they’ve brought nothing but trouble. And when sickness spreads through their camps, we’ll see it here soon enough.”
A young mother, clutching a basket of rice, turned to the butcher with a scowl. “Have you no heart? They’ve lost their homes, their families. What would you have them do?”
“Not camp at our gates, that’s for sure,” the butcher retorted, his voice hard. “If the mist followed them, we’ll all be next.”
The mother’s lips tightened, but she said no more. Jin, standing near a stall of brass pots, listened quietly, his pen scratching across his journal as he caught fragments of conversations. Each word painted a picture of a town already unraveling, trust corroded by fear.
“What did they expect?” an elderly man muttered to a friend as they shuffled past. “We’re not saviors. Let the Council deal with it.”
Jin shut his journal with a sharp snap and headed back to the clinic. He found Rokan grinding herbs, his movements as deliberate as ever. Without preamble, Jin said, “Uncle, the townspeople seem to be breaking under their fear. It’s not the mist alone—it’s what it’s doing to them.”
Rokan didn’t look up. “The mist hasn’t touched us yet, but the people’s own foolishness will do the work for it. Let them squabble.”
“They’re afraid. The refugees—”
“Are not our responsibility,” Rokan cut in, his tone like the crack of a whip. “You’d do well to remember that. The Council will act if it suits them. Nobles have armies and funds. We have none of those luxuries.”
“But isn’t this part of healing?” Jin’s voice rose, the words spilling out. “Not just broken bones or illnesses, but the wounds between people?”
Rokan finally turned, his gaze piercing. “You want to heal the world, boy? Start by keeping this clinic running. The rest is for gods and fools.” He turned back to his mortar, dismissing Jin with a wave. “Focus on what you can fix.”
Jin stood in silence, his fists clenching at his sides. The voices from the market echoed in his ears, heavy with despair. He turned sharply, heading for the small library tucked behind the clinic. His journal, now clutched tightly under his arm, felt heavier than usual—a weight of questions demanding answers.
Jin sat at the narrow desk, the lamplight casting golden halos on the brittle pages before him. He flipped open the old book he had found weeks ago, its edges frayed and ink faded but still legible. The crimson mist—a name that seemed to shroud itself in both myth and dread—stared back at him from the curling script.
The descriptions were fragmented, almost cryptic. “A mist born of Qi imbalance, reshaping all it touches.” Another line read, “The afflicted… twisted… unrecognizable.” Jin traced the faded ink with his fingers, his heart pounding as if the words themselves carried a quiet warning.
He found a drawing of a village half-consumed, the mist rendered in wild, jagged strokes that seemed to bleed across the parchment. The fear surrounding it wasn’t exaggerated. Whatever the mist touched, it did not leave untouched.
Jin’s breaths quickened as he absorbed the fragmented accounts. The mist wasn’t just destruction—it was transformation, a force that seemed to warp reality itself. His mind flickered back to the refugees’ hollowed expressions and the way the townspeople whispered of curses and doom.
Why would Rokan, so steadfast in the face of calamity, dismiss this? What was it about the mist that made even him turn away? Jin’s pen hovered over his journal, then struck the page in sharp, deliberate strokes. He needed more answers—and he would find them, no matter the cost.
Rokan sighed, his sharp eyes flickering to the boy hunched over the desk, the faint rustle of pages a steady rhythm in the otherwise silent clinic. The boy's unyielding determination—the same trait that Rokan had once admired—now seemed a liability. He muttered a low curse under his breath and shook his head.
Rokan had seen this pattern before: idealism turned to folly. Refugee camps, like embers fanned by the winds of desperation, always invited illness and plague. One sick body would lead to another, and soon the entire camp would crumble under the weight of contagion. The signs were already there—hollow faces, gaunt bodies, and the desperate shuffle of feet that told of lives uprooted and spirits broken.
Rokan’s practiced hands lingered over his better stock—gleaming vials of rare tinctures and tightly sealed jars of potent elixirs. Those were for the townsfolk, the ones who could not afford to be lost if sickness swept through Seta. With a sharp breath, he packed the lesser supplies into a basket, his movements brisk and unrelenting. Sentiment was a luxury, and one he could not afford when the stakes were survival.
As he measured out dried roots and ground powders, his gaze drifted back to Jin. The boy scribbled in his journal, his expression intense, as if the words on those pages could stave off the chaos encroaching from beyond the gates. Rokan huffed.
“Bah, boys and their delusions,” Rokan grumbled, grinding herbs with more force than necessary.
“Always chasing shadows and trying to save the world, when the real problems are right under their noses.” He huffed and reached for a jar of bitterroot, dragging it onto the counter. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, measuring out various remedies that could be spared for the refugees.
Rokan cast a glance at Jin, hunched over his books like a scholar solving the world’s mysteries.
“Let him chase his ghosts,” he said under his breath, his tone heavy with both annoyance and resignation. “Time will teach him what it doesn’t cure.”
The days passed in a brittle silence. Jin busied himself with the clinic’s chores, his movements brisk but distracted. Rokan, hunched over his potions, offered no comment, his focus entirely on grinding herbs and measuring tinctures. The unspoken tension between them was thick, lingering even as they shared meals in silence.
Jin sat by the window that evening, the soft glow of the lamplight casting long shadows across his journal. He stared at the pages, his brush poised but unmoving. His outburst lingered in his mind, the words echoing back to him with a mix of regret and frustration. Had he wounded Rokan’s pride? Or was the old man’s stubbornness simply a wall Jin could never breach?
His thoughts turned to the refugees outside the gates. Their gaunt faces haunted him. “The mists are real,” he whispered to himself. “Why can’t he see it?” His mind raced. Soon, cultivators would arrive, driven by greed and ambition, their presence a harbinger of worse things to come. And then there were the mist-beasts—creatures that twisted everything living into something monstrous.
The knocking came late, sharp and insistent, breaking the stillness that had settled over the clinic after dinner. Jin, wiping his damp hands on his tunic, opened the door to find a group of guardsmen, their faces lit by flickering torchlight. Fear clung to them as tangibly as the smoke curling in the air.
Before Jin could speak, a gruff voice from behind him interrupted. “It’s the refugees, isn’t it?” Rokan’s silhouette loomed in the doorway, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “Coughs, sneezes, stomach aches. Am I right?”
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, one stepping forward to confirm with a stiff nod. But before words could spill out, Rokan shoved a basket into their hands, filled with jars and pots carefully wrapped in cloth. “One for each of them,” he said curtly. “Should last a while. Tell the Council this is the end of their favor. If they’re waiting on help from Sunara, they’d best start praying harder.”
Without waiting for a response, Rokan shut the door with finality, the thud reverberating through the quiet clinic. Jin turned to his uncle, surprise etched across his face. “Uncle, did you…?”
“Yes, boy,” Rokan interrupted, his voice weary but firm. “I’ve known all along. The whispers, the signs—they’re not new to me. But knowing doesn’t mean I’ll waste time chasing shadows. The town’s survival is what matters, not your fantasies about mists and beasts.”
Jin hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides. “But Uncle, we can’t just ignore—”
“Enough!” Rokan snapped, his tone like the crack of a whip. He turned back to his workbench, grinding herbs with deliberate force. “Your energy is better spent practicing your forms, centering your breathing, or making pills for when things get worse. That’s how we prepare for the unknown—not with wild theories or useless scribbling.”
The sharpness of Rokan’s words cut deep, but Jin couldn’t shake the questions swirling in his mind. “You’ve always known,” Jin said quietly, his voice trembling with both accusation and wonder. “And you still won’t act?”
Rokan paused, the pestle still in his hand. For a moment, the air between them seemed to hum with the weight of truths left unsaid. “Yes, boy,” Rokan said finally, his voice heavy with resignation. “I’m old, not blind. I’ve read the same books you’re obsessing over, and I know my limits. Fear makes us blind, and fear is what we must fight—not the mist, not the beasts, not the cultivators.”
He turned, his eyes meeting Jin’s with an intensity that brooked no argument. “What we do here is simple. We prepare. We ensure that what the townspeople fear doesn’t happen—not by chasing phantoms, but by focusing on what’s real and what we can control.”
Jin lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening around the edge of his journal. The lamplight flickered, casting restless shadows across the room as he sat back at his desk. As Rokan returned to his potions, the rhythmic grinding resumed, steady and relentless, like the beat of time itself.