The morning broke with a quiet murmur, the clinic bathed in hues of soft grey as clouds thickened above Seta. Jin stirred from his makeshift cot, the cool air clinging to his skin as he brushed the dampness from his temples. Troubled dreams had left an uneasy residue, fragments of cultivators' mocking voices and veiled threats lingering like a shadow over his thoughts. He exhaled sharply, swung his legs to the floor, and rose. Each movement carried a deliberate precision—a quiet refusal to let those remnants settle too deeply.
Barefoot, he crossed the creaking floor and stepped into the practice yard. The earth was cool beneath his feet, textured with grit and scattered leaves. He raised his arms, transitioning smoothly into the first stance of the forms. The motions unfolded with a steady rhythm—sweeping arcs, precise pivots—the muscle memory born of discipline rather than raw strength.
Each shift grounded him more firmly, the forms a silent dialogue with his own body. By the time the final sequence completed, the lingering haze of the night had dissolved. As he walked out from the shop, Jin caught himself glancing at the cot where the wounded cultivator had lain hours before, the memory of their tense vigil still fresh in his mind. He turned toward the dirt path and began to run, his breath measured and steady, his strides deliberate, carrying him toward the edge of the town.
The patter of his feet against the earth became a rhythm of release, his calves faintly aching but stronger than before. As his body warmed, his steps lengthened. The small streets of the town gave way to paths skirting the lower ridges, and before he realized it, he had almost reached the edge of the lower town.
His breath came steady, his body whispering of newfound strength. For a fleeting moment, Jin allowed himself pride—until the memory of the cultivators’ casual threat returned.
His words had been so nonchalant, as if squeezing secrets from Rokan would be no more troublesome than plucking a ripe fruit. The thought sank into him, gnawing like a dull blade. Even as his muscles sang of progress, the shadow of their presence marred his accomplishment.
By the time he turned back, retracing his path to the clinic, his mind had only tightened its grip on those dark thoughts.
Rokan’s gnarled hands moved with practiced precision, each leaf and root placed with deliberate care into the mortar. The faint rustle of dried herbs and the subtle bitterness hanging in the air wove a tapestry of quiet diligence.
Jin stood at the threshold, his breath still uneven, the exertion of his morning’s run evident in the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His fingers flexed against the doorframe, the tension in his stance betraying the unrest gnawing at him. When he spoke, the words carried the weight of unspoken turmoil, his voice low and measured as if testing the waters before diving into his thoughts.
“Uncle, I've been thinking about the cultivators…” Jin began, his voice tentative but insistent. Rokan raised a hand to silence him, the motion neither abrupt nor impatient, but deliberate—as though commanding silence carried the weight of his wisdom.
The old healer’s eyes remained fixed on the mortar he was grinding. The rhythmic crunch of pestle against herb seemed to echo the grinding tension in the room. Without looking up, Rokan spoke, his tone as measured as his movements. “You’ve spent the morning running, and now your thoughts run wild too. There is work to be done, boy. Wash up and prepare the food.”
Rokan’s words carried the finality of a stone gate closing, but Jin’s determination flared. He hesitated for a moment, then moved toward the basin, rinsing his hands as the thoughts he carried refused to be silenced.
The clatter of plates and the earthy smell of cooked vegetables filled the room as he set the table, but his curiosity smoldered beneath the surface. Each motion of placing the meal before Rokan seemed like a challenge in itself.
Jin sat across from his uncle, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes flicking to the healer’s face as if seeking a sign of permission to speak. Rokan noticed and sighed, setting his pestle aside. He turned to Jin, his expression unreadable but weighted. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
Jin’s shoulders straightened. “I need to understand, Uncle. Why do they act like they’re untouchable? Why is it that cultivators can mock, threaten, and take what they please while the rest of us…” He hesitated, searching for the words. “While the rest of us scrape to survive?”
Rokan’s gaze was sharp, almost dissecting. “Because they can. Because the pursuit of power distances them from those who have none. And because pride is an insidious thing, boy. It creeps in with every step they climb.” He paused, leaning back slightly, his hands resting in his lap. “But not all cultivators are like that. Power changes people, but it doesn’t always corrupt. Some use it to heal, to guide, even to protect. The problem isn’t the power itself. It’s what lies in the heart of the one who wields it.”
Jin’s hands tightened into fists, his nails pressing into his palms. “But the cultivation world… it’s like an iron wall. It shuts people like us out, keeping secrets locked away as if they were treasures meant only for the high and mighty. How can we ever hope to stand against such injustice when they hoard all the knowledge and leave the rest of us to grovel in ignorance?”
Rokan’s lips thinned, his expression hardening. “The moment you believe throwing open the gates will fix the world, you’ve already lost. Power handed freely to all isn’t justice; it’s chaos. Imagine a thousand voices, each shouting for their own ambition. What happens when one merchant bends his will to gather wealth at the cost of others? Or a farmer uses his strength to crush his rivals? Harmony isn’t born from ambition, Jin. It’s forged from restraint.”
The room fell silent, the weight of Rokan’s words pressing against the air. Jin’s mind churned, and though his uncle’s reasoning was sound, the embers of defiance still burned. “Then what should we do?” he asked, his voice softer but no less resolute.
Rokan smiled faintly, a shadow of weariness flickering across his face. “You watch. You learn. And you choose your battles wisely. Power alone doesn’t change the world. It’s the purpose behind it.”
Jin lowered his gaze, his thoughts simmering as the conversation dissolved into the shared silence of their meal. But deep inside, he felt the stirring of something unyielding—a resolve that would not let him rest.
They were about to eat when a sharp knock interrupted them, the sound cutting through the quiet room like a blade. Jin opened the door to find Uncle Senda, the fishmonger, his wiry frame framed against the light of day. Unusually, the man’s short robes carried no trace of their usual fishy odor. In his hands, he held a basket of freshly cleaned fish, the scales glinting faintly in the light from the clinic.
Senda’s lined face cracked into a wry smile. “Is there enough food for three, or should I trust you with this?” he asked, thrusting the basket forward. The gesture was both an offering and a clear suggestion: he meant for Jin to take the fish and busy himself with cooking, leaving the adults to speak in private.
Jin accepted the basket with a slight bow, retreating to the kitchen without a word. His ears, however, remained tuned to the murmurs that floated from the dining area, curiosity gnawing at him.
Rokan greeted Senda with a lazy nod, gesturing toward the chair opposite him. “What brings you here, old friend? The sun’s not kind to your complexion, and I doubt you’ve left the shade of your stall without good reason.”
Senda lowered himself into the chair, his expression darkening. “The town’s restless,” he began. “More refugees keep spilling in from the south. Families huddled together, their belongings barely enough to fill a satchel. And the cultivators...” He spat the word as if it were bitter on his tongue. “They’re patrolling the hills, intercepting caravans under the guise of checking for the mist-touched. They ransack the goods, tearing through each cart like wolves, and then demand a hefty sum not to disrupt the journey further. Protection? No, it’s extortion dressed in authority.”
The firelight flickered across Rokan’s face, but his expression remained unreadable. He tapped his fingers lightly on the table before reaching for a scrap of parchment. “You’re a man who knows the markets better than most,” he said, sliding the paper toward Senda. “Can you get these for me?”
Senda’s eyes widened as they scanned the list. “This isn’t a recipe. It’s a war chest,” he muttered, incredulity lacing his tone. “Are you planning to poison the whole town?”
Rokan’s only response was to slide a heavy pouch of coins across the table. Its metallic clink spoke volumes, silencing Senda’s protests. The fishmonger hesitated, then pocketed the pouch with a grunt. “You’ve always been a strange one, Rokan,” he said, shaking his head. “But strange has a way of surviving when sense doesn’t.”
The conversation shifted to lighter topics as Jin returned, carefully balancing a platter of steaming fish. Yet the undercurrent of unease remained, a shadow that even laughter could not dispel. Senda’s earlier words lingered in the air, a reminder of the mounting tension in Seta. Refugees brought tales of despair; cultivators, cloaked in authority, spread fear; and the town, precariously balanced, teetered on the brink of chaos.
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As they sat down to eat, the scent of grilled fish mingled with the quiet rustling of leaves outside. Rokan picked at the fish with deliberate movements, pulling the tender meat from the bone with his chopsticks. Senda, despite his earlier unease, chuckled lightly as he took a hearty bite, nodding in approval. "Jin, you’ve a talent for cooking. Better than half the inns I’ve stopped at."
Jin smiled faintly, though his mind was elsewhere. He ate mechanically, each bite accompanied by the weight of unspoken thoughts. Rokan noticed the boy’s distracted state and tapped his bowl lightly with his chopsticks. “Eat with purpose, boy. You won’t change the world on an empty stomach.”
Senda grinned but his expression quickly turned somber. “Rokan… this can’t go on. The refugees, the cultivators… the town’s balance is crumbling.”
Rokan nodded slightly, setting down his bowl. His gaze met Senda’s, calm yet piercing. “You’re not wrong, old friend. But solutions are not cooked up as easily as this fish.”
Jin’s gaze flicked between the two men as they ate in thoughtful silence. Each mouthful was laden with more than just sustenance; it was a pause between the worries that pressed in from all sides. The meal concluded with Senda pushing back his chair and rising to leave, his face heavy with unspoken concern.
Rokan’s eyes flicked to the doorway as Senda prepared to leave. “The lords won’t act unless their coin is threatened,” Senda muttered, lingering for a moment longer. “And the king in Sunara? He’s too far to hear our cries.”
Rokan’s gaze followed the fishmonger as he stepped outside, the weight of his words settling like an iron mantle over the room. Jin glanced at his uncle, but Rokan said nothing, turning instead to the cooling fish before him. Yet in his silence, Jin sensed a stirring resolve, a quiet determination that mirrored the one kindling in his own heart.
Later, as Jin helped Rokan stock the shelves, the bitterness within him churned. He spoke his thoughts aloud, half to himself and half to his mentor. “What if cultivation secrets weren’t locked away? If everyone could cultivate, wouldn’t the world be better? Farmers can learn to tend their fields, fishermen to master the seas, and craftsmen to hone their tools. Why does cultivation seem so distant, so removed from daily life? Ordinary people wouldn’t have to rely on these self-styled protectors if the power to grow stronger was within everyone’s reach.”
Rokan paused in his work, his hands momentarily still over a bundle of dried leaves. “And then what?” he asked quietly. “A world where everyone wields power sounds noble, but have you considered the price? What happens when knowledge is cheapened, Jin? When the unworthy gain strength without understanding its burden?”
Jin frowned, his frustration visible in the furrow of his brow. “But wouldn’t some good come from it? I remember when old Man Darai lost his daughter to sickness. She might have lived if he’d had even a fraction of the knowledge or power those cultivators hoard. And what about the floods last spring? Imagine if farmers could reinforce their fields with Qi, protecting their crops instead of watching everything wash away. Isn’t that worth the risk?”
Rokan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “When everyone speaks at once, wisdom is lost in the clamor. A mob with power, Jin, doesn’t create harmony—it tears the world apart. What keeps a farmer, empowered with strength, from turning his plow against his neighbor? Or a merchant, once meek, from twisting the rules to suit his greed? Power without discipline is chaos.”
The weight of Rokan’s words settled heavily in the room, his tone neither harsh nor dismissive, but edged with the gravity of hard-won experience. “True strength requires discipline. When it’s handed out like scraps, it doesn’t create harmony. It creates a world where the loudest voices and rashest hands rule. Would you call that justice?”
Rokan’s gaze was sharp, probing. “Cultivation changes people, Jin. It isolates them. The more someone achieves, the farther they drift from the ground beneath their feet. The system is flawed, yes, but throwing open the gates won’t heal those flaws. It might deepen them.”
But Jin’s mind lingered on the words of the fishmonger and the cultivators’ mocking laughter. His bitterness deepened into resolve.
Later that evening, when Rokan sent him to the Spice Market to replenish their stores, the tension in the streets was palpable. Refugees crowded the market square, their numbers swelling beyond what the town could comfortably hold. Townsfolk stood against the displaced, their voices raised in anger and desperation as they argued over the distribution of rationed supplies. Each shouted demand or plea seemed to edge closer to open chaos, the air thick with unease.
The air in the market was tense, heavy with the sharp voices of refugees haggling over pitifully small rations. Thin children clung to their parents’ sides, their hollow eyes darting toward baskets of food they couldn’t afford. A woman knelt by a stall, pleading with the vendor to spare even a handful of grain. Her voice, hoarse from desperation, cracked against the indifference in the merchant’s stare. Behind her, others muttered and murmured, their discontent rippling outward like cracks in fragile ice.
Nearby, guards stood stiffly, their spears glinting under the fading light. Their eyes tracked the movements of the crowd, wary but detached. They did nothing to help; their orders were clear—to contain the protests, not to intervene. One guard’s hand rested on the hilt of his blade, his posture a quiet warning of the violence that would follow should the tension boil over.
Jin lingered at the edge of the chaos, his arms wrapped around the basket of herbs he’d gathered. He watched as the crowd swelled, a sea of frayed tunics and weathered faces. He saw a boy no older than ten, his hand outstretched toward a loaf of bread that he couldn’t reach. The vendor smacked the boy’s hand away, the gesture casual and cold. A murmur of discontent rose, but it dissolved quickly under the weight of fear.
Jin’s heart clenched, anger simmering beneath his composed expression. Yet he held himself still, his breaths steady. No one spoke openly against the injustice, and the crowd’s frustration remained a low hum instead of a shout. He knew it could erupt at any moment, and when it did, the guards would act without mercy. The unease in the air was palpable, a storm threatening to break. Jin exhaled, grateful that, for now, it hadn’t.
At the market’s edge, Jin lingered in the shadow of a fruit stall, his ears pricked as the rich, booming laughter of two cultivators pierced through the market’s din. Clad in robes embroidered with intricate patterns of their sect, the men strode toward the lower town, their strides full of practiced arrogance. They carried themselves with the ease of predators who knew no fear, their presence casting a ripple of unease through the crowd.
“Mist-beasts this morning,” one of them said, his voice loud and theatrical, as though recounting a grand tale. He slapped the haft of the glaive slung across his back, the faint smear of blood still visible on its polished wood. “And the caravans this afternoon. We’ve had a good haul today.”
The other laughed, adjusting the pouch tied to his sash. The coins inside jingled like mocking bells. “A good haul indeed. Those merchants were too eager to ‘offer’ their wares to protect their journey. Fools. As if they had any choice.”
“The look on their faces when we inspected the carts,” the first continued, grinning. “‘Checking for the mist-touched,’ we told them. And yet, somehow, their finest silks and spices made their way to our hands.”
Jin’s grip on the edge of his basket tightened. He could feel the anger simmering, his heart pounding in time with their laughter. The cultivators passed close enough that he caught the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat, a mingling of their power and privilege. As they disappeared toward the more prosperous streets of the lower town, their voices faded, but the sting of their arrogance remained, etched into the air like a scar.
By the time Jin returned to the clinic, his frustration surged like an unrelenting tide. His steps were quick, and the door creaked sharply as he pushed it open. “Is this really how things must be, Uncle? Us standing idle while cultivators extort and ignore those in need?” His voice trembled with the weight of suppressed anger, his knuckles white as they gripped the basket.
Rokan, seated by the workbench, did not look up. His hands moved steadily, slicing through a thick root with practiced ease. The rhythmic scrape of the knife against the wooden board filled the room. “They are strong enough to do as they please,” he said, his tone calm but edged with unspoken weariness. “We can’t fight them. Not yet. Your strength lies in knowledge, Jin. Bide your time and learn.”
Jin’s gaze dropped to the packet of adderworm bark he had retrieved from the market. Its twisted, blackened branches seemed almost alive under the lantern’s glow. The stories he had heard of its venom came to mind—a slow, agonizing poison that left no visible trace. The thought coiled in his mind like a serpent, daring him to grasp it. His fingers brushed the rough bark, its texture grounding him in the moment.
“Knowledge?” he muttered, his voice tight. “They don’t care about knowledge. They hoard their secrets, use them to stay untouchable.” He raised his eyes to Rokan. “What good is knowing if we never act?”
Rokan set down his knife, the blade gleaming faintly. He turned, his gaze steady and unreadable. “You think this is inaction?” His hand motioned toward the herbs, the potions brewing softly in the corner, and the scrolls piled high on the shelves. “This is preparation. A sharp mind is as dangerous as a blade, Jin. But a sharp mind wielded recklessly? That’s no different from their arrogance.”
Jin’s breath caught, his frustration twisting into something more uncertain. His eyes fell again to the adderworm bark, and a realization began to take root. The bark’s venom wasn’t merely a weapon—it was a tool, one that required precision, discipline, and understanding. He began to see Rokan’s path, not as cowardice but as strategy. Where brute strength failed, knowledge could tip the scales.
The lantern’s light flickered, casting shifting shadows across the room. Jin clenched his fists, his jaw tight as his resolve solidified. If the cultivators used their secrets to dominate, he would use those same tools to protect. His fingers tightened around the basket’s handle, the weight of it now feeling purposeful.
“I see it now,” he said quietly, though his voice carried a steel edge. “We may not overpower them, but we can outthink them.”
Rokan gave a faint nod, his expression softening just enough to betray a trace of approval. “Good. Then start with this,” he said, nudging a scroll toward Jin. “Before you wield anything—be it knowledge, blade, or poison—you must understand it.”
Jin took the scroll, his fingers brushing its weathered surface. The lantern cast a faint glow on its faded text as he unfurled it. His resolve burned brighter, fueled by the shadows of doubt and injustice. In that moment, the path before him became clear. He would not remain idle. He would become stronger, sharper, a force to balance the scales.