The morning light draped Seta in a muted veil, its rays slipping through the haze of smoke and the gathering clouds that churned with unspoken tension. Jin stood barefoot in the courtyard behind the shop, his toes curling slightly against the cool, damp earth. His chest rose and fell with deliberate rhythm, each breath deep and unhurried as though he were drawing strength from the very ground beneath him.
He inhaled sharply, the crisp morning air cutting through the lingering fatigue in his muscles, then released it in a steady exhale that rippled through his frame like a practiced current. His posture was relaxed yet firm, his shoulders loose, his stance fluid—a quiet mastery beginning to take root.
Jin’s arms flowed through the forms, his movements deliberate, carving the air with purpose. A faint sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the light with each shift. Around him, the noises of the waking city ebbed and surged. Faintly, the first sounds of unrest reached him, the voices still distant but unmistakably sharp.
Outside the clinic, the narrow lanes roiled with tension. Two groups of townsfolk had converged, their grievances distinct yet colliding like opposing waves. “They’ll strip us bare!” bellowed a man, his arm thrust toward a cluster of refugees huddled under a tattered awning. His voice carried the bite of fear sharpened into rage. “First the mists, now these scavengers! They’ll bring ruin to us all!”
“That’s not true!” a woman shot back, her voice trembling but fierce. “Blame the merchants, not the starving! Prices have doubled because of greed, not these people!”
“Survive?” The man’s sneer was thick with scorn. “They’ll bring sickness and mists to choke us out! Drive them off before we’re all buried!”
The shouts surged like a rising tide, each accusation striking Jin’s ears with the force of crashing waves. He could feel the tension thickening, pressing down as the two groups edged closer. Beneath eaves and behind carts, wary eyes darted toward the refugees, judgment flickering like embers waiting to catch.
Jin’s fingers clenched as he stepped back into the clinic, his pulse quickening with the weight of the growing chaos. Rokan stood at the counter, his shoulders squared and his eyes sharp as he watched the procession of protesters winding through the Spice Market. The crowd had already come through the Lower Town, their anger rippling outward like a rising tide. As they passed through the Harbor District, their chants mingled with the cries of gulls and the clatter of cartwheels, picking up volume with each turn.
Now, heading toward the refugee camp outside the east gate, their voices roared with desperation and defiance. The pounding of feet against cobblestones echoed like distant thunder. Jin joined Rokan, setting down a damp cloth from his morning chores and glancing out at the crowd. His brush scratched against parchment as he recorded details of the protest: the crude signs, the faces filled with both fury and fatigue, the rhythmic surge of voices demanding action.
The exercise steadied him. As the ink dried, he practiced the breathing technique Rokan had taught him, his chest expanding and contracting in measured cadence. The forms he had trained in earlier lingered in his mind, grounding him in the midst of the turmoil. The protesters moved on, their voices fading into the hum of the market, but the tension remained, crackling in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Jin’s eyes followed a figure in grey robes—Dalan, the elder monk whose calm presence had diffused tempers during a near-riot days before. The monk’s steps were unhurried as he moved alongside the procession heading toward the east gate.
As the crowd neared the city’s edge, the tension grew palpable, their voices an ever-louder mix of defiance and fear. Jin fell in step, observing as Dalan’s serene demeanor seemed to ripple outward, subtly quieting the angriest shouts. When they reached the refugee camp outside the gates, the air grew thick with unspoken grievances.
Dalan stood tall between the approaching townsfolk and the refugees, his figure unmoving like a mountain rooted in the earth. His grey robes billowed gently in the breeze, but his presence radiated calmness and patience, a quiet authority that seemed to ripple outward. The shouts of the townsfolk faltered as they drew closer, their anger dimming into uneasy murmurs. Even the most enraged among them found their voices lowering, unable to meet the monk’s steady gaze. Behind him, the refugees watched in wary silence, their eyes darting between the crowd and Dalan, the monk’s stillness a fragile barrier against the rising tide of hostility.
The elder monk stood tall, his figure silhouetted against the rising sun as the crowd surged toward the refugee camp. His presence was unyielding, his feet planted firmly in the earth as though he were an ancient tree, unmoving amidst a storm. The wind stirred his grey robes, making them ripple like water against rock, but the monk himself remained utterly still. The air around him seemed heavier, quieter, as though his mere existence had drawn the chaos into itself, softening the edge of the crowd’s anger.
The townsfolk slowed as they neared him. Shouts that had moments ago been full of vitriol faltered, their energy dissipating like steam escaping from a kettle. Even the most fervent of the agitators hesitated, their words reduced to murmurs beneath Dalan’s steady gaze. He didn’t speak, not at first. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his calm radiating outward like ripples in a pond, until the tension in the crowd became unbearable.
Finally, when the quiet was complete, Dalan raised his hands, his palms facing the crowd in a gesture of peace.
“Friends,” he began, his voice low but resonant, each word sinking into the gathered throng like drops of rain on parched soil. “You have come here seeking justice, but anger cannot be its vessel. Look beyond your fears. These people,” he gestured to the refugees standing anxiously behind him, their faces lined with weariness, “are not your enemy. They are the tillers of your fields, the hunters of your forests, displaced by forces beyond their control. Will you turn your backs on those who once fed and clothed you?”
The crowd shifted uneasily, feet scuffing the ground as heads turned away from the refugees’ hollow eyes. A man at the front, his face ruddy with anger, opened his mouth to respond but stopped short when Dalan stepped closer, his calm presence pressing down on the gathering like a tangible force.
“I have asked the lords of Seta for land,” Dalan continued, his tone patient but firm. “A place near the monastery, where they may live and farm, away from the mists that consumed their homes. They will rebuild, slowly, and when the time comes, they will repay Seta a hundredfold with their labor and gratitude. But only if you give them that chance.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of doubt and reluctant understanding. Jin watched from the edge, his breath caught in his chest. Dalan stood at the center of it all, unmoving, unyielding—a lone bastion holding back the tide of fear and resentment. Behind him, the refugees stood straighter, their shoulders lifting as if buoyed by the monk’s words.
Jin’s fists clenched. For a moment, he felt the pull of the same calm that seemed to emanate from Dalan, steadying his own breathing, quieting his own doubts. The monk’s presence wasn’t merely soothing—it was a call to action, a reminder that strength wasn’t always found in force but in the unwavering commitment to do what was right. As the storm clouds darkened the sky, Jin’s resolve deepened, mirroring the steadfastness of the figure before him.
The crowd stilled for a moment, their fury seemingly swallowed by Dalan’s immovable presence. But just as the quiet began to settle, a voice pierced the calm like a jagged blade. “The refugees bring the mists!” someone shouted from within the throng, their tone shrill with fear. “They’ll choke us all, just like their homes!”
The words struck like a spark on dry tinder. The townsfolk erupted again, their shouts tangled with panic and anger. “They’re cursed!” one cried. “They’ll doom us all if we let them stay!”
Dalan remained where he stood, his figure unyielding as the tide of hostility rose around him. He raised one hand, a slow and deliberate motion, his palm open and steady. “Enough,” he said, his voice cutting through the chaos with the quiet force of a waterfall over stone. The crowd’s roars faltered, the monk’s calm presence pulling their fear into the weight of his words.
“The mists are no fault of these people,” Dalan continued, his gaze sweeping over the agitated faces. “Would you cast them out into greater danger because you fear what you do not understand? Would you deny them safety and peace, only to find your own hearts poisoned by such cruelty?”
A man at the front, his fists clenched, snarled back. “You speak as though you’ve faced the mists, monk. Do you know what they bring? The death they carry?”
Dalan stepped forward, his calm gaze fixed on the man. “I have walked through the mists and seen what lies within. Fear makes them stronger, turns the heart against itself. But unity—compassion—those are the forces that withstand it. Will you let fear master you?”
The man’s expression wavered, his anger dimming under the monk’s steady gaze. Around him, others shuffled uneasily, their murmurs softening to uncertain whispers. Behind Dalan, the refugees watched in silence, their faces tense but glimmering with faint hope.
Jin stood at the edge of the crowd, his fists clenched as he watched the townsfolk waver under Dalan’s calm presence. The monk’s stillness was unyielding, a quiet strength that rippled outward and subdued the rising storm of voices. For a moment, Jin’s frustration ebbed, replaced by a pull he couldn’t quite name.
But he stayed rooted, observing from a distance. The scene before him was a lesson—a masterful display of restraint and conviction that he knew he couldn’t match, not yet.
Instead of stepping forward, Jin tightened his grip on the basket in his hand and made a silent vow: he would not interrupt this moment. Dalan’s actions spoke louder than any words Jin could offer, a reminder that strength sometimes lay in quiet defiance, in being the mountain against the storm.
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The monk’s gaze swept over the crowd, meeting each pair of eyes with a calm patience that demanded reflection. Jin took a slow breath, letting the power of Dalan’s presence settle into his own thoughts, planting seeds of understanding he couldn’t yet articulate.
When the monk’s gaze fell on Jin, his hand lifted in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning the boy forward. The crowd’s whispers quieted as Jin stepped hesitantly to Dalan’s side, his worn sandals scuffing the ground. The monk’s voice, calm and measured, carried easily over the stillness.
“This boy,” Dalan began, his words deliberate, “is an apprentice to a healer. He seeks to help the refugees with what little he has, offering medicine and compassion where others offer fear. This is the value that Tairaku holds dear: that a man should help his neighbor in need, not cast him aside for the misfortunes that have befallen him.”
The crowd’s murmurs shifted, their anger tempered by curiosity as Dalan’s calm presence rippled outward like a soothing balm. Jin, feeling the weight of their eyes, straightened his back, though his heart pounded in his chest. He sensed a subtle energy flowing from the monk, a gentle Qi that seemed to quiet the hostility. The tension in the townsfolk’s shoulders eased, their voices softening as though compelled by an unseen force.
Gradually, the crowd began to dissipate, their anger draining into uneasy silence. Their voices dimmed to murmurs, footsteps dragging as if burdened by guilt they couldn’t articulate. Jin remained at the monk’s side, his gaze following the departing townsfolk. The air was heavy with an unspoken understanding, leaving Jin to wonder at the profound stillness Dalan had commanded.
“You silenced them,” Jin said softly, glancing at Dalan. “How?”
Dalan’s lips curved into a faint, thoughtful smile. “It was not my power that silenced them, but their own hearts, stirred by the stillness,” he said, his voice low and steady, carrying a weight that seemed to anchor the moment. He folded his hands before him, his posture unyielding yet gentle, as though the world itself might pause to listen. “Sometimes, silence speaks louder than anger.”
Jin’s brow furrowed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “But it’s not enough,” he countered, his voice tinged with the sharp edge of a blade unsheathed. “The cultivators hoard their knowledge, their power, and they use it to walk over people like us. How can stillness compete with that? How can calm face down cruelty?”
Dalan turned to Jin, his gaze steady, his eyes searching the younger man’s face as though measuring the depth of his conviction. “And if you respond to cruelty with the same force?” he asked quietly. “What then? Does not the blade sharpen itself on the stone of hatred? Those who wield power without restraint often fall to its weight. Would you let anger forge you into something you cannot recognize?”
Dalan’s expression softened, though the weariness in his eyes deepened. “No,” he said firmly. “You act. But not out of anger. You act with purpose, with discipline. Power is a fire, young one. Left unchecked, it consumes. But with care, it can warm, protect, and nurture. The question is not how you will gain power, but how you will wield it when it comes.”
Jin stared at the ground, the weight of the monk’s words settling over him. Around them, the last murmurs of the crowd faded into the distance, leaving only the rhythmic patter of rain against the earth. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Dalan’s.
“How do I learn that kind of strength?” Jin asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with a cautious hope.
Dalan’s faint smile returned. “You begin as you are now. You listen. You learn. And when the time comes, you act not for yourself, but for others. That is where true strength lies.”
The monk’s words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, like stones dropped into still water. Jin’s gaze shifted to the refugees huddled behind them, their faces lined with exhaustion but alight with flickers of hope. The last of the townsfolk drifted away, their steps heavy with doubt as the storm clouds above churned, dark and brooding.
Jin exhaled sharply, his voice tinged with frustration and curiosity. “But is it even possible? To have power and not lose yourself? To shape the world without breaking it?”
Dalan’s steady gaze met his, the first drops of rain tracing lines down his weathered face. “Possible, but rare,” he replied, his tone patient yet firm. “To wield power without being consumed by it takes discipline, humility, and an unwavering purpose. Few walk that path, Jin. But those who do become more than masters of strength—they become guides, shepherds of the flame.”
Jin’s shoulders tensed, his mind a storm of doubt and determination. “But how do you know when you’re using it for others, and not for yourself?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Dalan stepped closer, his presence radiating calm even as the rain intensified. “You listen,” he said softly. “To the world around you. To those you wish to help. And most importantly, to the quiet voice within that asks not ‘what do I gain?’ but ‘what do they need?’ Power must be guided by wisdom, not ambition. When the time comes, ask yourself: does this path build, or does it destroy?”
Jin looked away, his fists clenched as he stared at the ground. The weight of Dalan’s words settled over him, pressing against his doubts and forcing him to confront the question he had been avoiding. Around them, the patter of rain grew steadier, a rhythm that seemed to echo the steady resolve in the monk’s voice.
“What if I make the wrong choice?” Jin asked, his voice barely audible.
Dalan’s faint smile returned, a quiet reassurance against the storm. “You will,” he said simply. “But it is what you do after that matters. A wise man does not avoid mistakes; he learns from them. And in learning, he grows stronger.”
Jin’s gaze lifted, meeting Dalan’s. The monk’s words cut through his turmoil, planting seeds of understanding that would take time to grow. As the rain soaked through his tunic, Jin’s resolve deepened. He didn’t have answers, not yet, but he would find them—one step at a time.
The conversation ended as the storm clouds churned heavier above the camp, darkening the horizon with an oppressive weight. The first heavy drops of rain began to fall, pattering against the earth and scattering the last of the crowd. Protesters hurried into doorways and alleys, their voices dampened by the sudden deluge.
Jin lingered beside the monk, the rain soaking through his threadbare tunic and clinging to his skin. He watched in silence as the tension dissolved into the retreating figures, their hostility washed away by the downpour. Dalan, still unyielding as a mountain, stood unmoving, his gaze distant as if searching the storm itself for answers. Jin turned to him, his voice quiet. “Elder, will this really change anything?”
Dalan’s calm eyes met Jin’s, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “Not today, perhaps. But ripples grow into waves, Jin. Even the smallest effort can shift the course of a storm.”
As the monk began to turn back toward the camp, Jin hesitated, then bowed deeply before departing. His steps were slow, the rain trailing down his face as he made his way back to the shop. The storm grew heavier, the sound of thunder rolling in the distance.
Rokan’s gruff voice greeted Jin as he stumbled into the shop, water streaming from his sodden tunic to pool on the floor. The old healer’s sharp eyes locked onto the growing puddle, his mouth tightening into a hard line. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a towel in Jin’s direction. “Dry yourself,” he barked, his tone clipped and bracing as the storm outside. “And keep that mess away from my counter.”
Rokan turned back to his herbs, his movements precise yet taut with an unspoken frustration. The thud of a jar hitting the wooden counter punctuated his irritation, though his hands moved with their usual efficiency. His sharp eyes flicked toward the rain streaking the window, the relentless downpour a cruel mimicry of the turmoil outside the shop.
“Typical,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but laced with simmering anger. “The lords of Tairaku, masters of pretense. A storm here, a heatwave there, and they think they’ve solved the world’s problems. Nature wielded like a whip to scatter protests without ever addressing the rot beneath.”
Jin, drying himself with the coarse towel, glanced at Rokan, his curiosity sparked despite his exhaustion. “You mean the cultivators… they can do this?”
Rokan’s laugh was low and humorless. “The stronger ones can. The true masters, they sit at the pinnacle, far above the squabbles of towns like this. Manipulating weather is child’s play to them. And they’ll spin a hundred self-righteous justifications for why they don’t clear the mists or help the refugees. Too busy pursuing enlightenment, no doubt.”
Jin’s thoughts turned to the refugee camps, their thin tents and makeshift shelters vulnerable to the unrelenting storm. “What will happen to them?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.
Rokan shrugged, his expression unreadable. “They’ll endure, or they won’t. Bring more medicine tomorrow. The stock Dalan had might hold for now, but if things don’t change soon…” He let the sentence trail off, his words heavy with the unspoken weight of reality.
Jin nodded, his resolve hardening with each word. The storm outside raged on, but inside, he prepared for the tasks ahead, each breath steady and purposeful—a rhythm of quiet defiance against the chaos of the world beyond the clinic walls.
The storm outside had settled into a relentless rhythm, a steady drumbeat that framed the quiet tension inside the shop. Rokan and Jin fell into their well-practiced routine. The old healer worked with an intensity that seemed almost mechanical, grinding herbs and mixing potions with the precision of someone who had performed these tasks countless times. Jin moved alongside him, tending to the shop and fetching what Rokan needed before the words were even spoken. The quiet day, punctuated only by the clink of jars and the hiss of boiling water, allowed them to work in peace—until Jin spoke.
“I want to be a cultivator,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the ambient noise like a blade.
Rokan’s hands froze mid-motion. Slowly, he set down the pestle, his movements deliberate, as if restraining an impulse to hurl it across the room. When he turned to Jin, his eyes were sharp, dark with an anger that Jin couldn’t understand. “You have no idea what you’re saying,” Rokan said, his voice low but tight, each word clipped with controlled fury.
“Why not?” Jin countered, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Why shouldn’t I learn to protect myself? To help people, like Dalan or even Sage Open Sky? Isn’t that what strength is for?”
Rokan’s laugh was bitter, more a bark than a sound of mirth. “Dalan and the Old Fart are fools,” he snapped. “They fill your head with ideals, but they don’t tell you what power does to a man—what it costs. You’re not ready to understand strength, let alone wield it with wisdom.”
Jin’s fists clenched, his heart pounding. “How will I ever be ready if I don’t try?” he shot back. “You speak of wisdom and restraint, but you won’t even teach me how to begin.”
Rokan’s shoulders tightened, his jaw set as though holding back an avalanche of words. Finally, he exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with pent-up frustration. “Because power doesn’t just make you strong,” he said, his voice quieter but no less intense. “It shapes you. Twists you, if you’re not careful. You think you want it now, boy, but when it comes, it demands more than you’re ready to give.”
Jin stared at the old man, his frustration simmering beneath his skin. Yet something in Rokan’s voice—a weight, a bitterness that ran deeper than his words—gave him pause. There was more here, something unsaid, but Jin knew better than to press. Instead, he looked away, his gaze falling to the floor as the tension in the room thickened like the air before a storm.
“Fine,” Jin said finally, his tone muted but firm. “I’ll prove you wrong.”
Rokan said nothing, turning back to his work with a sharp, almost dismissive motion. But his hands moved slower now, the earlier precision replaced by something heavier, as though the weight of the conversation lingered in his fingers. The rain outside continued to fall, its steady rhythm a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside.