The predawn hush cloaked the clearing behind Rokan’s workshop in muted stillness, broken only by Jin’s labored breathing. He stood alone, his stance wide but wavering, arms trembling as he practiced the forms Rokan had taught him. Though the first rays of sunlight began to brush the rooftops, Jin’s brow was furrowed, his frustration etched in every movement. A week had passed since Rokan had last refined these techniques with him, but to Jin, it felt as if he’d been practicing forever with little to show for it.
He could see the forms perfectly in his mind—Rokan’s fluid transitions, the way the old man’s limbs moved like currents in a stream, balanced and measured. Each motion was etched into Jin’s memory, vivid and precise. Yet when Jin tried to mirror those movements, his muscles refused to obey. His breaths came ragged instead of steady, a hip twist too rigid, an arm arc too shallow, his stance unsteady.
The disconnect between the clarity in his mind and the fumbling reality of his body drove him to clench his fists in frustration. Why couldn’t his body move as swiftly as his understanding? Each failure only stoked his impatience further, his hunger to master the forms battling against the maddeningly slow pace of his physical progress.
“Relax,” Jin muttered to himself. He forced an inhale, tried to soften his shoulders, and pressed his feet firmly into the earth. But the more he corrected, the more glaring his flaws became. His body betrayed him, stubbornly resisting every adjustment. Frustration churned within him, a sharp edge that urged him to push harder, to repeat each motion faster, to force his body to comply.
He twisted his hips with greater force, only to lose balance. His arm arcs grew wider, more frantic, until his muscles burned with the effort. How could something that seemed so simple in theory feel so maddeningly elusive? Yet, despite the growing ache, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, driven by the gnawing impatience to match his understanding to his performance.
The sun had lifted higher by the time Rokan appeared, arms folded as he leaned against the doorway, observing Jin without a word. The old healer’s keen eyes took in every tremble, every incorrect angle. Finally, he stepped forward, motioning for Jin to stop.
“You’re overthinking,” Rokan snapped, his voice like a lash. “Fool. Do you think strength comes from frustration and flailing?” He tapped Jin’s temple with a sharp flick of his fingers. “It’s not enough to know the form here.” Then he thumped Jin’s chest with more force than usual, making the boy stagger slightly. “You must forge it here—discipline, restraint, control. Feed your impatience, and you’ll ruin everything.”
Rokan adjusted Jin’s posture, his touch firm yet precise. “Do it again. Slowly this time. Feel each breath guide the motion. Don’t fight your body—learn to move with it.”
Jin repeated the stance under Rokan’s watchful gaze, his lungs aching with the effort of aligning breath and movement. The corrections came steadily, each small adjustment bridging the gap between knowledge and embodiment. But the exercise grew more frustrating with each attempt.
Jin loathed his weak body, the frailty that turned every movement into a betrayal of his will. Each time his limbs trembled or his stance faltered, the sense of inadequacy clawed at him, feeding his impatience like a relentless inferno. He wanted to be strong—not in some distant future, but now.
The memory of Rokan’s fluid mastery only stoked his desperation, a blazing contrast to his own faltering steps. Every failure felt like a physical blow to his resolve, leaving bruises on his spirit. And yet, he couldn’t stop. His muscles burned, his breaths came in jagged gasps, and still, he pushed himself. The desire to conquer his weakness consumed him, but his relentless exertion shattered the rhythm of the forms, turning each motion into a staccato struggle.
“Stop,” Rokan barked, his voice a thunderclap of barely contained fury. The boy froze mid-motion, trembling and drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. Rokan strode forward, his expression dark with unbridled anger. "You’re a damned fool," he growled, his words cutting like a blade. "Ruining the rhythm, destroying your own body to feed that impatience! Do you think this is strength? It’s self-destruction! That’s not willpower—that’s recklessness, and it will break you faster than anything else."
Jin lowered his gaze, shame prickling at the edges of his exhaustion, yet his frustration still simmered beneath it all. He wanted to defend himself, to say that he only pushed so hard because he longed to improve, but the words caught in his throat. Rokan jabbed a finger toward him, his voice as unyielding as iron.
"Strength comes from discipline, from restraint and control. Not from thrashing like a headless chicken." His tone grew sharper, and his eyes blazed with fury. "You think you’re making progress by pushing yourself to ruin? You’ll break your body before you even touch real strength. Stop this nonsense now!"
Jin flinched at the reprimand, but the force of Rokan’s words rooted him in place. "Clean yourself up," Rokan ordered, his voice a crack of thunder. "Then cook something useful, and tend the shop. No exercises for you until you master that impatient temper of yours." He turned sharply and left Jin standing there, drenched in sweat and swallowed by his own self-doubt.
Jin clenched his fists, the sting of Rokan’s words biting deeper than any physical ache. Yet, as he trudged toward the house to wash up, a small part of him began to realize the truth behind those harsh words. His frustration, his impatience—they weren’t strength. They were consuming him, driving him to act recklessly. And until he learned to temper that flame, he would always remain the trembling boy struggling to hold a stance.
On a drizzly midday, the rhythm of the clinic slowed as fewer visitors braved the rain. The damp air carried the sharp, earthy tang of wet herbs, and Jin worked silently in the back, restocking shelves. The sound of raindrops tapping against the roof was punctuated by the door slamming open. Harsh footsteps, slick with rain, squeaked against the wooden floor, leaving dark, wet imprints. Labored breathing and agitated muttering followed, sharp against the subdued ambiance.
Jin froze, a bundle of leaves in hand, as the pungent smell of damp clothing mingled with the herbs. The voice that followed rose sharply, shattering the stillness.
“I know you keep them here! You have to! Dominion’s strength pills—they’re here somewhere!”
Jin stepped cautiously into the main room to see a wiry man pacing, his eyes feverish, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cool air. His hands twitched erratically, as though longing to grip something tangible. The desperation in his expression was unmistakable.
“Listen to me,” Rokan’s voice cut through the tension. He stood calmly behind the counter, arms relaxed but posture taut, as though ready to spring into action. “I don’t trade in Dominion nonsense. You won’t find your pills here.”
The man’s face twisted with a mix of anger and shame. “Lies!” he spat, stepping closer. “Healers like you always hoard the best stuff—tonics that bring strength, elixirs for power. I need them!” His voice cracked, raw with desperation.
Jin’s pulse quickened as he caught sight of the man’s trembling hands, the erratic movements of his eyes. For a moment, Jin saw his own reflection in those wild, hollow orbs—his own simmering frustration and impatience mirrored in the man’s desperate gaze. The pungent smell of damp clothing mingled with the sharp tang of wet herbs, grounding Jin in the moment even as his thoughts raced.
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He recalled the stories whispered along the road: strength pills from the Dominion that promised power in days what should take years. He had overheard a merchant muttering about a once-promising martial artist now reduced to wandering the alleys, consumed by his hunger for more pills. A fisherman had spoken bitterly of his brother, whose Qi had flared like a wildfire only to leave him an empty husk, a spark extinguished before its time.
Now the trembling man stood before him, a living warning. His twitching hands, rasping breaths, and feverish movements radiated desperation barely contained. The fragmented tales Jin had overheard came rushing back with harsh clarity. For a fleeting moment, he saw his own impatience amplified in the man’s collapse. “Is this what power brings?," Jin thought, the realization cutting through his frustration like the cold, damp air around him.
Rokan’s voice was cold and sharp, each word like a dagger. “Strength earned through shortcuts? It’s poison. Look at yourself—rotting already.”
“Shut up!” the man roared, lunging forward with the wild intensity of a cornered beast. His hand shot out, claw-like, aimed at Rokan with a desperate ferocity. But midway, his erratic eyes shifted, catching sight of Jin near the shelves. A new target. Without hesitation, the man pivoted sharply, his body snapping into motion despite the tremors. His movements were fast, fueled by raw desperation rather than precision, but they carried enough force to be deadly.
Jin saw the attack before it came, his mind racing ahead of his sluggish body. He knew the motions he should execute—a duck to avoid the blow, a raised arm to block, a twist of the hips to angle away. Yet his limbs moved as though submerged in thick mud, slow and unresponsive. The man’s strike connected, a hard, jarring blow to Jin’s shoulder that sent him sprawling into the shelves. Jars shattered, herbs scattered like leaves in a storm, and Jin gasped as pain radiated down his arm.
Before the man could press his advantage, Rokan stepped in. The old healer moved with the calm certainty of a mountain stream carving through stone. His stance shifted seamlessly, one foot sliding forward as his arm swept up to deflect the next strike. The man’s wild aggression met a wall of tempered precision; Rokan’s movements were economical, each one flowing into the next with an unbroken rhythm. A subtle pivot of his hips redirected the man’s momentum, causing him to stumble forward.
Rokan’s counterattacks were not flashy but deliberate, each designed to destabilize. A guiding hand pushed the man off balance, a sweeping leg disrupted his footing, and a quick twist of the wrist sent his next strike harmlessly to the side. The room seemed to shrink around them, every motion sharp and controlled, like the brushstrokes of a master calligrapher etching his work onto the air.
The man snarled, his strength faltering as Rokan’s precision turned his own force against him. A final sweep sent the assailant sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath. The clash was over in moments, yet every second had been charged with the vivid, fluid energy of a duel between discipline and chaos.
Jin pushed himself up, cradling his bruised shoulder. His eyes locked on Rokan, who stood as though untouched by the struggle, breathing only slightly harder than before. The forms Rokan had taught him—those painstakingly slow movements—had transformed into a dance of mastery that neutralized raw aggression with tempered calm.
The fallen man howled in frustration, tears mixing with the rainwater on his face. “The pills… I need them,” he sobbed, his voice breaking under the weight of his desperation. “I’m nothing without them.”
Rokan knelt beside him, his eyes cold, his voice edged with disgust. "Power you steal poisons you. Look at yourself—broken and begging for scraps. You’ve traded strength for chains."
The man’s sobs grew quieter, his anger dissolving into exhaustion. Townsfolk arrived shortly after, alerted by the commotion. As they led him away, their voices carried snippets of commentary, weaving a narrative of judgment and regret.
"Another fool chasing shortcuts," an older man muttered, shaking his head. "Strength isn’t something you buy—it’s something you earn."
"It’s the pills," a younger woman whispered, her voice tinged with fear. "They promise so much—power, speed, the cultivation of a lifetime in weeks—but look what they leave behind."
Another passerby, a wiry trader with a shrewd gaze, spoke more softly, yet his words were laced with derision. "The Dominion knows what it’s doing. Sell us strength, make us depend on it. They’re not just trading pills—they’re stealing discipline."
Rokan stood silent as the voices faded with the departing townsfolk, his gaze unwavering as he turned back to the clinic. Jin lingered by the shelves, their words echoing in his mind.
He remembered overhearing similar tones during his weeks watching the road—the murmured envy of martial artists striving for more, the bitter disappointment of those who had taken shortcuts and fallen. What had seemed vague and distant before now stood stark before him, embodied in the broken figure being led away.
As the door closed, silence settled over the clinic once more, though the weight of the moment lingered heavily between Jin and Rokan.
Rokan turned to Jin, his gaze sharp and unyielding, like steel tempered in fire. "You see now?" he said, his voice low but brimming with suppressed fury. "The easy path doesn’t just slip through your fingers—it eats you alive. Power poisons everything it touches. Remember that, or you’ll end up like him."
Jin nodded, pressing a hand to his aching shoulder. Though his frustration hadn’t vanished, it had gained a new dimension. He saw in the stranger’s collapse the same hunger that simmered within himself—the desire to close the gap between what he knew and what his body could accomplish. But he also saw the cost of succumbing to that craving.
“Better slow progress than feeding an obsession,” Rokan said, picking up the scattered jars and herbs. “One day, these forms might save you—not just from others, but from your own impatience.”
Jin lowered his eyes, breathing carefully as the lesson settled into his bones. The longing for strength still smoldered, but it was tempered now by the memory of the man’s fall—and the quiet mastery Rokan had shown in the face of chaos. Each step on Jin’s path to genuine power would be slow, but he resolved to take them nonetheless.
As the fire crackled and the mist settled outside, Jin stared into the flickering light, his thoughts as heavy as the damp air pressing against the clinic's walls. Tomorrow, there would be no practicing the forms and motions. Rokan’s harsh decree lingered in his mind, each word etched with the weight of frustration and shame. Instead, his day would begin with the scrolls and books Rokan kept tucked in the far shelves of the clinic. It wasn’t what he wanted, but he understood why.
Jin traced his fingers over his shoulder, still aching from the earlier blow. He clenched his fists, not in anger but in renewed resolve. "I’ll do it," he murmured under his breath. "I’ll get stronger, but I’ll do it right."
Across the room, Rokan sat sharpening a blade, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone filling the silence. "You’re thinking too loudly, boy," Rokan grumbled, not looking up. "Your mind is like a storm, and you wonder why your body won’t listen. Master your breathing first. Find rhythm in that before you dare move again."
The reprimand stung, but Jin said nothing, simply nodding. He had seen the cost of impatience and recklessness today—seen it in the wild desperation of the man who attacked them, and in his own faltering forms. That man’s trembling hands, fevered eyes, and rasping breaths were not so far from his own frantic attempts at mastering the forms. The thought churned uncomfortably in his chest.
"You saw yourself in him, didn’t you?" Rokan’s voice broke through Jin’s thoughts, sharp and gruff as ever. "Good. Hold onto that. Burn it into your memory. If you don’t learn control, you’ll end up just like him—weak, desperate, begging for strength that won’t come." He stood, the blade in his hands gleaming in the firelight, and pointed it toward Jin. "Strength isn’t something you take. It’s something you become. Discipline, boy. Restraint. You breathe it in and forge it day by day."
Jin met Rokan’s gaze, the old man’s eyes steely and unrelenting. He nodded, his chest tightening with the weight of the lesson. Tomorrow wouldn’t be the day he wanted, but it would be the day he needed. He would begin again, slowly, deliberately. No forms. No motions. Just the rhythm of his breath and the patience to master it.
As the fire crackled and the mist hung heavy beyond the windows, Jin settled into the stillness, his frustration now tempered by the faint glow of determination. He had seen what unchecked desire could do. Tomorrow, he would face that same desire and begin the long path toward mastering it.