Days blended together in a rhythm of toil and discipline. Jin’s mornings began with the crisp chill of dawn cutting against his skin as he practiced forms under Rokan’s sharp gaze.
The old healer’s voice cracked like a whip through the quiet air. “Breathe deeper. Flow, boy, flow. Do you think the mist will wait for you to find your balance?” Jin’s limbs trembled as he moved through each sequence, the ache in his muscles a reminder of Rokan’s relentless standards.
When the training ended, sweat plastering his tunic to his back, Jin would sprint to the Spice Market, his feet pounding against the cobblestones. The marketplace was alive with the clamor of voices and the tang of spices that clung to the air.
There, Jin darted between stalls, haggling for medicinal ingredients under the watchful eyes of vendors who seemed to measure his worth with every coin he handed over.
Rokan called these errands 'good training for an idle mind and a weak body,' his gruff tone barely masking the glint of approval in his eyes whenever Jin returned, panting but triumphant, with the day’s spoils.
Beneath Rokan’s sharp commands and Jin’s begrudging compliance, there was an undercurrent of urgency. The refugees’ plight had stirred something in the old healer, and he spent long hours preparing batches of pills. These pills were different from what the old healer often made. He had added ingredients Jin thought belonged in cookery instead of medicinal pills. Beans and nuts, some grains, and even dried meat and salted fish.
“These will stave off hunger and illnesses for a season,” he explained curtly, the fatigue in his eyes betraying the toll it was taking.
The mortar ground against the pestle with a faint, uneven rhythm. Rokan’s hand, once unshakable, trembled slightly as he measured dried herbs into the bowl, the movements precise despite their faltering strength. Jin stood silently in the corner, watching as the old man’s shoulders, usually straight and commanding, sagged under the weight of unseen burdens. A flicker of light caught the deep creases on Rokan’s face, lines etched by countless nights of unrelenting labor.
Jin felt his breath catch. The strength he had always taken for granted in Rokan now seemed fragile, each motion a quiet defiance against the creeping toll of time. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, the words dying on his tongue.
The mortar struck the bowl again, steady and relentless, as if Rokan believed he could grind down the world’s problems through sheer will. Jin tightened his fists, the memory of their argument cutting into him like a blade. He had been blind to this, blind to the quiet storm raging in the old man’s every action. And now, standing in the warm light of the clinic, regret weighed heavier on him than ever.
One morning, Rokan thrust a satchel into Jin’s hands, the motion brisk but heavy with purpose. The leather bag’s worn edges hinted at countless errands before this one, but its weight now carried urgency. Beside it, Rokan placed a list scrawled in his neat but hurried hand.
“We’re short on these herbs,” he said, his voice as sharp as the slicing of a blade through air. “Go south to the hills. Gather what you can. And you’ll have to pass through the refugee camp. Look around while you’re there. Observe their condition.”
Rokan reached behind the counter and retrieved several small cloth bags, their tops tied neatly with twine. He dropped them into Jin’s satchel, the bags settling heavily against the leather bottom. “These pills are for them,” Rokan added, his tone clipped but firm. “Don’t linger.”
Jin’s brow furrowed as he shifted the satchel’s strap across his shoulder. “What should I be looking for?” he asked, his voice tentative, uncertain whether the question was wise.
Rokan turned to him, his gaze direct and unyielding. “You’ll know it when you see it,” he said. The words carried no room for argument, but his voice betrayed a faint edge of weariness, a crack in his usual gruffness. He pointed toward the door, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “Use your eyes, boy, not your mouth. Now go.”
The refugee camp sprawled across the eastern outskirts like a wounded beast, its makeshift tents sagging under the weight of dew and despair. The air carried a damp heaviness, thick with the mingled odors of unwashed bodies, smoldering fires, and churned mud. As Jin stepped onto the camp’s uneven paths, his boots sank slightly into the mire, the squelch of wet earth loud against the muted hum of human suffering.
Clusters of people huddled together beneath patched tarps, their faces pale and drawn. A woman sat cross-legged, her vacant eyes fixed on the horizon as she cradled a bundle too small to be alive.
Nearby, children with gaunt cheeks rummaged through scraps of fabric, their tiny hands searching for anything of value. Low voices murmured in broken tones, fragments of prayers and futile reassurances carried on the wind.
Monks in weathered grey robes moved quietly among the tents, their presence like fleeting shadows. One bent to offer a bowl of thin porridge to an elderly man, whose trembling hands barely managed to accept it. Another knelt beside a lifeless figure, murmuring words of peace while the guardsmen beside him began erecting a makeshift pyre. Jin’s stomach churned as he continued walking, the quiet despair of the camp pressing against him like a suffocating shroud.
Jin’s steps slowed as he approached each tent, the sight within wrenching his heart in ways he could not articulate. A gaunt man extended a trembling hand to receive the pills, his hollow eyes darting to the small, shivering child clinging to his side. In another corner, a woman cradled a bundle of cloth, rocking it gently despite the stillness within. Jin lowered the bag of pills into her lap, his voice barely a whisper as he said, “These will help.”
At one tent, a young boy tugged at Jin’s sleeve, his bare feet caked with mud. The boy’s voice wavered as he pointed to a frail figure lying on a makeshift mat. Jin knelt and placed a small pouch beside the man, the faint rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. “It’s not much, but it’s something,” Jin murmured, the words more for himself than anyone else.
Each interaction left him feeling more drained, his murmured reassurances sounding hollow even to his own ears. He pressed on, his hands steady despite the storm brewing in his chest, moving from one tent to the next with the mechanical efficiency of someone holding despair at bay.
“Bless you,” a young monk said, his hands folded as he accepted the bag Jin handed him. His grey robes hung loosely over a lean frame, the fabric faded and patched in places. Despite the chaos around him, his expression remained serene. “Are you the healer’s apprentice?”
Jin adjusted the satchel strap on his shoulder. “I’m helping,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the camp pressing on him. “I was supposed to hand this out to the refugees, but seeing that you're handling the situation here, might be better if I entrusted these bags to you. Sorry if it troubles you.”
The monk inclined his head and motioned Jin forward, his movements unhurried but purposeful. Together, they wove through the camp, past rows of sagging tents where refugees huddled in ragged blankets. Monks, their grey robes swaying like ghosts in the wind, moved quietly, providing care and service to anyone who might needed it among the tents.
The air grew dense with conflicting smells—the bitter tang of incense wafting from a makeshift altar, mingling with the acrid stench of unwashed bodies and stagnant mud. Jin’s boots squelched against the earth, the sound swallowed by the faint sobs and murmurs that filled the air. A monk stood to the side, hammering wooden planks together to fashion a stretcher, his brows furrowed in silent concentration. Every figure seemed to carry the weight of an unseen storm, their movements deliberate yet burdened by the gravity of the scene.
As they neared the heart of the camp, the monk guiding Jin paused, his gaze resting briefly on a makeshift pyre where two guardsmen worked in somber silence. Without a word, he continued forward, leading Jin to a weathered canopy where an elder monk sat cross-legged, his calm presence radiating through the surrounding chaos.
Jin stepped forward, the weight of the camp’s despair still pressing on his shoulders, and bowed deeply, presenting the bags of pills with both hands. The elder monk’s sharp gaze fell on the bags, and his fingers, weathered but steady, brushed its edge. He opened a bag slowly, the faint scent of the herbs within drifting out. His stern face softened, a subtle shift like the first rays of dawn breaking through clouded skies.
"These are Rokan’s?" he asked, his tone even, though the words carried a quiet reverence.
Jin nodded. "Uncle Rokan made these. He said they should help keep hunger and illness at bay."
The elder examined the contents closely, each movement deliberate, as if weighing not just the pills but the intention behind them. Finally, he tied the bag with a decisive motion. "If these are Rokan’s work, then they are more than medicine. They are a lifeline."
He raised his gaze to meet Jin’s, his eyes steady and unwavering. "You must thank him," the elder said, his voice soft but imbued with an authority that seemed to settle the very air around them. "His hands and yours have brought hope where it was nearly lost."
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The elder leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as he offered a blessing, the words flowing like a gentle stream. The cadence of his prayer was rhythmic, almost melodic, each syllable carrying the weight of gratitude not just for the medicine, but for the effort behind it. Jin bowed again, the gravity of the moment settling deep in his chest.
With the last bag of pills delivered and the weight of the refugee camp left behind him, Jin stepped onto the path leading to the hills, the air around him lightening with every step. The hills to the south stretched endlessly, rolling in gentle waves of green that shimmered under the golden embrace of the morning sun. Wildflowers, their colors vivid against the lush grass, swayed lazily in the breeze, as though bowing to an unseen rhythm. Jin paused, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths that had taken months of training to achieve. Not so long ago, the climb would have left him gasping before he even reached this place.
A narrow path wound its way through the hills, flanked by groves of trees whose leaves whispered as the wind brushed past, carrying with it the melody of unseen birds. Jin’s boots brushed against the dew-laden grass, droplets clinging to the edges of his tunic as if nature itself wished to mark his journey. Each step felt lighter now, a testament to the strength he had gained under Rokan’s relentless watch.
In the distance, a stream tumbled over smooth stones, its clear waters catching the light like scattered shards of glass. Jin crouched by its edge, his reflection rippling in the current as he dipped his hands into the cool flow. The chill bit at his fingers, yet it was refreshing, a balm to his wearied spirit. The memory of the refugee camp’s stagnant air and despair began to fade, replaced by the vitality of this unspoiled haven.
As he stood, his gaze followed the undulating line of the hills, their serenity unbroken by the chaos of the world below. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe in the quiet promise of this place, its beauty a fleeting reprieve from the burdens that waited for him beyond its borders.
As Jin trudged through the uneven paths, his boots brushing against the dew-laden grass, he paused to observe a cluster of herbs growing beneath the shade of a gnarled tree.
Kneeling, he gently inspected their leaves and stems, the faintly sweet aroma rising to meet him. His hands moved methodically, plucking only what Rokan had instructed, careful not to disturb the roots unnecessarily. A stream meandered nearby, its crystal-clear waters glinting like shards of glass as it flowed over smooth stones. The murmuring current seemed to echo the rhythm of his task, a quiet balm to his wearied spirit.
At the crest of a hill, Jin paused to wipe his brow, the satchel on his back already heavy with his gathered harvest. From this vantage, he could see the expanse of green stretching endlessly, unmarred by the turmoil of the world below. The wind carried the faint scent of sun-warmed grass and wild herbs, refreshing him with every breath. For a fleeting moment, the weight of his burdens seemed lighter, the hills whispering a promise of calm in a world fractured by chaos.
As he worked, a sudden surge of Qi rippled through the air. Jin tensed, turning to see a man approaching, his presence unmistakably that of a cultivator. The man’s sharp eyes fixed on Jin. “Where is the nearest mist-taken village?” he demanded, his tone curt.
Jin pointed in the direction he had heard from the refugees. The cultivator nodded and strode away without another word. Jin exhaled slowly, recalling Rokan’s warnings. “Cultivators are bad business,” the old man had said.
The first encounter was not the last. Throughout the day, Jin crossed paths with several groups of cultivators, each exuding the same arrogance. Growing tired of their condescension, Jin began pointing them in conflicting directions, suppressing a wry grin as they marched off with self-assured urgency.
On his way back, Jin’s bag brimming with herbs, he heard the raised voices before he saw them. Turning a corner on the winding path, the scene unfolded like a shadow on water—cultivators in bright robes stood tall, their Qi radiating arrogance, while monks in muted greys stood silently, their hands clasped in a gesture of peace. Refugees shrank back into the meager shelter of their tents, their faces pale with fear.
"You bring the mist here!" one of the cultivators spat, his voice cutting through the tense air. His arm swept toward the huddled families, his tone dripping with venom. "Your presence defiles this land."
Another cultivator, his blade gleaming faintly at his side, sneered. "Perhaps we should purify this place ourselves."
Jin’s steps faltered, his grip tightening on the strap of his satchel. Heat rose to his face, anger curling in his chest like smoke. Yet he took a breath, steadying himself. Rokan’s words echoed in his mind: "Fools only bring fire to a storm."
As the monks stood their ground, one of them stepped forward, his calm eyes meeting the cultivators without wavering. Jin’s fists clenched, his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to shout, to act, but the weight of the herbs on his back reminded him of his purpose. With measured steps, he began to edge away, determined to avoid the conflict.
As Jin took a step to leave, a sharp voice cut through the charged air. “You there!” one of the cultivators barked, his tone dripping with suspicion. “What are you doing here?! You came from the hills don't you?! What business do you have in the hills? Are you one of them mist-touched, perhaps?”
Jin froze, his grip tightening around the strap of his satchel. His gaze met the speaker’s, a tall man whose arrogance seemed to seep from the edges of his brightly colored robes. “Honoured cultivators, the hills are far from the mist-taken villages,” Jin replied, his voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath. “I’m gathering herbs for the clinic in town.”
The cultivators’ Qi crackled in the air, tendrils of energy coiling like serpents ready to strike. One of them raised his hand, the faint glow of his power intensifying as he stepped closer to Jin. “Defiance from a boy like you? Let us see how long that courage lasts.” His tone dripped with contempt, each word a whip lashing the silence.
Another cultivator smirked, unsheathing his blade just enough for the edge to catch the light. “Perhaps the mist has already seeped into you. It would be irresponsible to let you go unchecked.”
"Herbs?" one sneered, his voice low and venomous, as though the very notion was an insult. He stepped closer, his robes billowing slightly with the faint hum of his flaring Qi, a deliberate display of dominance. "And what would you, a mere boy, know of the mist's reach? It clings where it wills, unseen and unbidden. Better we confirm it ourselves."
The air around them grew tense, heavy with the crackling undercurrent of unspoken threat. "Hold still," the cultivator continued, his hand glowing faintly as tendrils of Qi swirled at his fingertips. His tone turned mocking, his gaze narrowing as though piercing through Jin. "Unless, of course, you have something to hide?"
Jin’s heart hammered, his thoughts racing as he stood frozen between fight and flight. The cultivators’ Qi buzzed in the air, oppressive and sharp, like the crackle of a distant storm. His grip tightened on the strap of his satchel, his knuckles white against the leather. He wanted to respond, to shout back, but his mind churned with hesitation. What could he say that wouldn’t make things worse? What could he do against such power?
His breath caught, the words tangling in his throat, when suddenly a calm yet commanding voice rang out, cutting through the tension like the toll of a bell. “This boy is under my protection.”
The elder monk stepped forward, his grey robes billowing slightly as an unseen ripple of Qi radiated from him, subtle yet unmistakably powerful. The charged air seemed to cool, the weight of his presence pressing against the cultivators like a mountain overshadowing a stream. His serene gaze swept over them, his calm demeanor masking the restrained strength that crackled beneath the surface.
One of the cultivators faltered, his earlier arrogance dimming as his Qi instinctively recoiled, like a flame meeting an overpowering gust of wind. Another, gripping the hilt of his blade, hesitated as if second-guessing his actions. The elder monk’s voice broke the silence, steady and unwavering, carrying the weight of unshakable authority. “He is an apprentice to the healer Rokan,” he said, his words cutting through the tension like a blade tempered by decades of experience. “He poses no threat to this town or its people.”
The cultivators hesitated, their bravado faltering under the monk’s quiet authority. One, his pride clearly wounded, let out a huff and tightened his grip on his sword’s hilt. “Perhaps our efforts are better spent elsewhere,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.
The elder monk inclined his head slightly, the barest flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips. “Indeed. South of the hills, they say mist-beasts roam freely. Surely such creatures would benefit from your... intervention.” His words were calm, almost cordial, yet they carried a subtle weight that turned the cultivators’ earlier arrogance into unease.
Another cultivator, his face flushed with suppressed anger, muttered, “Very well,” before stepping back, his Qi dissipating like a storm passing over distant waters. The others followed, their retreat marked by the stiffness of men holding onto the last shreds of dignity. As they turned and disappeared down the path, their bright robes faded into the landscape, leaving the camp in a quiet stillness once more.
Jin exhaled slowly, the tension in his chest easing. He turned to the monk and bowed deeply. “Thank you,” he said, his voice firm but grateful.
The elder monk’s gaze softened, a faint smile gracing his lips, though a subtle intensity lingered in his calm demeanor. As Jin stood before him, he felt the faint but distinct hum of the monk’s Qi, steady and profound, like the deep roots of an ancient tree. Unlike the sharp, almost volatile energy radiated by the cultivators, the monk’s Qi felt vast and immovable, its strength hidden beneath layers of restraint.
“Strength is meant to shield the weak, not burden them,” the monk said, his voice calm yet resonant, like the steady flow of a mountain stream. His eyes lingered on Jin, and though his expression remained serene, there was a glimmer of something deeper—a silent understanding of the storm that brewed within the boy.
Jin hesitated, his hands tightening briefly on the strap of his satchel. The subtle hum of the monk’s Qi brushed against him, not sharp like the cultivators’ brash energy, but deep and expansive, as if it were woven into the very fabric of the earth. He wanted to ask how such mastery was achieved, how power could feel so unshakably rooted, but the words caught in his throat. Was it too bold to ask? Would it trespass on the secrets of their monastery?
The monk’s gaze softened as though he had read Jin’s thoughts. “You showed restraint today, young one,” he said, his voice warm yet deliberate. “To stand firm in the face of arrogance without succumbing to anger requires strength of character. Such strength would not be unwelcome among our ranks.”
Jin blinked, surprised by the monk’s words. His mind churned, weighing the steady comfort of Rokan’s clinic against the pull of the monk’s quiet strength. The thought of leaving Rokan, even for a moment, felt like abandoning the man who had given him so much.
Yet, the monk’s mastery of Qi and his composed presence stirred something deeper—a yearning to understand and perhaps one day wield such calm power. “I… thank you,” Jin said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “But my place is with Uncle Rokan, at least for now. Still, I would like to learn more about your ways, if time allows.”
The elder monk inclined his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Then you have already taken the first step. Understanding begins not with action, but with the desire to seek truth.”