Jin wiped his hands on a damp cloth, the faint aroma of dumplings still hanging warmly in the air. The quiet hum of the clinic seemed to amplify the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet as he cleared the dining table.

The small satisfaction of his latest culinary experiment—dumplings filled with dried fish flakes and chives—brought a faint smile to his lips, though it had earned only a brief nod from Rokan earlier in the evening. The old man had been more focused than usual, his gaze lingering on the rows of herbs drying on the shelves.

Glancing toward the back of the clinic, Jin caught sight of Rokan bent over his workbench, meticulously grinding herbs. The faint scrape of the mortar against stone filled the air, its steady rhythm a quiet reassurance. Jin hesitated, then picked up a small plate of dumplings and carried it toward Rokan.

“Uncle, you should eat while they’re still warm,” he said, his voice careful, the words an offering more than a statement.

Rokan paused, his hand resting lightly on the pestle. For a moment, he said nothing, then reached out and took a dumpling. “Hmm. Better than last time,” he said gruffly, though the corners of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. He took another bite, his focus returning to his work.

Jin lingered nearby, watching his uncle. The tension that had once hung heavy between them now seemed to have dissolved into the quiet familiarity of the moment.

Jin’s gaze softened as he returned to clearing the table, the unspoken bond between them settling like a steady undercurrent, unbroken by words. The night stretched on, the air cool and calm, as if the world outside had paused for this fleeting moment of peace.

The tranquility of the clinic fractured like glass underfoot. A thunderous crash rattled the door as it swung violently open, the hinges protesting with a piercing groan. Jin spun toward the sound, the damp cloth slipping from his hand to land forgotten on the floor.

The figure in the doorway swayed unsteadily, the faint light catching the sheen of sweat and blood smeared across his torn robes. Each step the man took was an unsteady battle, his legs trembling before giving way entirely. He crumpled heavily to the ground, his breath rasping in shallow bursts, like wind struggling through a broken flute. The stark red of his wounds bloomed against the pale fabric, a morbid flower spreading its petals.

Rokan moved with a swiftness that defied his years, dropping to his knees beside the fallen cultivator. His hands darted to the man’s wrist, feeling for a pulse as his sharp eyes scanned the blood-soaked robes. “Tools. Herbs,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. Without so much as a glance at Jin, his words snapped the boy from his stunned stillness.

Jin’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the jars on the shelves, the clinking glass amplifying the tense silence. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, his breath quickening as he scrambled to gather what Rokan needed. The old man’s movements remained precise, his focus unbroken as he began to clear the wounds, Rokan’s eyes narrowed as he pressed his fingers near the wound, his brow furrowing. “It’s gnawing at him,” he muttered, his voice barely audible but heavy with meaning. “The Qi within is tangled, thrashing like a beast caught in a net.”

“Move faster, boy,” Rokan snapped, his fingers already packing herbs into the deepest gash. Jin jolted, fumbling to pass the next jar. The tension in the clinic grew thick, a silent storm gathering above them.

As Rokan applied a pungent tincture, the cultivator stirred, his breathing sharp and uneven. The elder healer’s fingers moved quickly, spreading the mixture over the wound, his jaw tightening as he muttered to himself, "This Qi… unstable, chaotic. It's tearing through him like a storm caught in a cage."

The man’s eyes cracked open, wild and blazing with pain. He growled, his voice raw, “Faster. Do it faster.”

Jin’s gaze darted to Rokan, his hands trembling as he watched the old man’s steady composure. Without looking up, Rokan replied, his tone calm but sharp, “You’ll hold together—if you stop letting your Qi fight itself.”

The cultivator’s lips curled, a twisted smile that barely masked the agony within. His Qi flickered again, erratic pulses rippling through the room. Rokan paused for a moment, reaching for a different vial. “He needs balance,” he muttered, more to himself. “Something to slow his blood, calm his mind… but his Qi’s force must rise to purge the poison.”

His hands worked with precise urgency, blending herbs and powders into a poultice, layering it with another tincture. The cultivator winced, his body jerking involuntarily as the mixture began its work. Rokan leaned closer, his voice low but commanding. “Don’t move. You’re already on the edge.”

Finally, as the last bandage was tied, the cultivator slumped into unconsciousness. The room seemed to exhale, the oppressive weight lifting slightly, though it lingered like the memory of thunder. Jin wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his chest tight as he watched Rokan carefully adjust the man’s position.

“Uncle Rokan, that man…” Jin’s voice wavered, his curiosity tempered by unease.

“Not here. Not now,” Rokan interrupted sharply, his glare silencing any further questions. With a curt motion, he directed Jin to clean the tools, leaving the room heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Hours dragged on as the night deepened, Rokan sat near the man's cot throughout the night, and Jin was unwilling to left the old man on his own. Shadows pooling in the corners of the clinic. The soft creak of a chair and the faint rustle of Jin’s cloth as he cleaned were the only sounds, until the stillness was pierced by a sharp intake of breath.

The cultivator’s eyes snapped open, their sharp intensity gleaming in the dim light like embers stoked to life. His fingers flexed, tentative at first, then more deliberate, his knuckles whitening as he tested his strength. His lips curled into a faint grimace as he shifted, the movement strained but purposeful.

Rokan’s gaze flickered toward him, sharp and steady, as the cultivator’s hand hovered over his chest. His breath hitched, and his brow furrowed deeply, as if seeking something that eluded him. Jin paused mid-step, his cloth forgotten in his hand, the tension in the room thickening like smoke.

He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his Qi. Where chaos had reigned before, there was now a pulse—strong, unwavering, and growing with each breath. His body, once wracked by sharp, tearing pain, now felt eerily calm, as if the storm that had gripped him had been stilled by an unseen force. His voice emerged low, tinged with suspicion.

“You did this,” he said, his hand hovering over his heart. His brow furrowed deeply as he searched for the source of this strange equilibrium. “This isn’t just healing. This is something else.”

Rokan leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, met the cultivator’s accusatory gaze without a flicker of hesitation. "You were lucky your body held together long enough for me to stabilize you," he said, his voice calm and measured. The weight of the words hung in the air as he continued, "Luck and careful treatment—that's all it took. Nothing more."

The cultivator’s eyes narrowed, the challenge in his expression growing sharper. But Rokan remained composed, his tone gaining an edge of quiet assurance. "What you felt? That was your own talent, your own power. It was your Qi fighting to save you. The herbs, the potions—they only gave you the chance to do the rest."

As the cultivator leaned back, his vision blurred, and memories surged forward, sharp and disjointed.

The hills southeast of Seta had been quiet at first, the stillness unnatural, the kind that sets every nerve on edge. Then the mist came, creeping like a living thing, curling around the jagged rocks and trees. From within it emerged shapes—mist-beasts, their forms monstrous and shifting, claws gleaming with a sinister light.

He had stood his ground, his blade flashing as he struck at the first beast. Its Qi was foul, malevolent, and each strike reverberated painfully up his arm. The beasts moved like phantoms, their bodies barely solid yet their blows carried weight that jarred his bones. He heard shouts behind him—fellow cultivators calling formations—but the mist thickened, swallowing voices and shapes alike.

The memory of the pain was vivid, searing through him anew. One of the beasts had lunged, its claws raking across his chest. The moment its Qi invaded him, it felt as though fire and ice warred inside his veins, tearing at his core. His grip on his weapon faltered, and his Qi turned erratic, thrashing against the foreign energy. He staggered back, his breath ragged, each inhale a struggle as his body rebelled against itself.

Confusion overtook him. Where were the others? Were they still fighting, or had they fled? He couldn’t tell; the mist was too dense, the shadows too alive. He stumbled, the ground uneven beneath his feet, and he ran—instinct overriding discipline. His thoughts blurred as the pain grew unbearable, the world narrowing to a single goal: survival.

Somehow, his feet had carried him down the hills, through the outskirts, and to this place. The memory faded, replaced by the present reality of the clinic and the calm but unreadable face of the healer before him.

The man’s narrowed eyes burned with intensity, but his hand lingered over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his Qi. The hum of power was undeniable, a solid, resonant pulse unlike anything he had felt before.

Rokan’s calm voice broke through the tension. “Your Qi’s strength is your own,” he said evenly, sensing the unspoken question in the man’s gaze. “What you feel now is not from me. It’s the force within you, stilled and tempered by necessity.”

The cultivator’s lips tightened, his mind spinning with fragmented memories. If his Qi had felt like this during the battle… His breath hitched, and his hand clenched briefly into a fist before relaxing. He could see the mist-beasts in his mind’s eye, their claws slicing through the air. Had his Qi been this solid, this unwavering, he might not have staggered to the clinic’s door at all.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The cultivator’s eyes narrowed, the flicker of anger behind them sparking briefly before dimming. He leaned back, his Qi settling, though it coiled beneath his calm exterior like a serpent waiting to strike. The storm in the clinic had not passed—it had only shifted, biding its time.

In the early light of morning, the rhythmic creak of the clinic’s door signaled the arrival of a group of cultivators. Their robes, adorned with the same insignia as the injured man’s, swayed lightly as they stepped inside, their boots barely brushing the floor. The leader, a stern-faced man with sharp eyes, cast a glance around the humble interior, his gaze lingering briefly on the rows of herbs and simple tools.

Rokan emerged from the back room, his movements calm and deliberate. Without a word, his eyes flicked toward Jin, a silent command that spoke volumes: stay back. Jin hesitated, his curiosity piqued, but he obeyed, retreating to the shadows.

“We followed our brother’s Qi signature here,” the leader said, his voice measured but tinged with an air of authority. He gestured toward the injured cultivator, who now rested upright on a cot, his breaths steady though his expression remained strained. “It seems he’s in good hands. Thank you for your service, Healer,” the man said as he handed Rokan a bag.

The words of gratitude felt hollow, laced with a faint disdain as the cultivators exchanged looks, their eyes scanning the clinic’s modest surroundings.

Rokan offered a slight bow, his expression unreadable. “Your brother’s condition has stabilized. He should be able to walk by now, and with care, he will fully recover in a matter of days.”

The leader’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Mist-beast injuries are not so easily treated,” he said, his tone betraying a flicker of doubt. His gaze lingered on Rokan, his mind racing with unspoken questions.

Rokan merely nodded, his calm demeanor unshaken. “The body has its own way of healing, given the right support.” He accepted their payment with a polite inclination of his head, his hands steady as they pocketed a bag, heavy with jingling coins.

The cultivator leader knelt beside his injured brother, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me what happened,” he murmured, his eyes scanning the elder healer from the corner of his vision.

The injured man’s voice, though hoarse, carried urgency. “This old man… he’s no ordinary healer. He did something to my Qi—stabilized it, strengthened it. I could feel it, even now. There are secrets here… things that could elevate us in the eyes of the sect.”

The leader’s eyes widened slightly, his expression momentarily betraying his shock before it was quickly masked by calculation. His mind raced. If they could uncover and bring back whatever method this healer used, the rewards from their elders would be immeasurable. Merits, praise, perhaps even a chance at promotion to inner disciplehood…

He straightened, his sharp eyes casting another calculating glance at Rokan, who stood motionless, his composure unshaken by the whispered exchange. The silence in the room hung like a drawn bowstring, tense and waiting, as if the air itself could sense the unspoken conflict.

The leader’s lips tightened. He gestured to his brothers with a curt wave, and they moved swiftly to lift the injured cultivator, their movements precise and practiced. As the brothers carried their comrade toward the door, the leader lingered, his gaze never leaving Rokan. His thoughts churned—the old man’s calmness was maddening, a puzzle he couldn’t yet solve.

“We will leave for now,” the leader said finally, his voice steady but carrying the weight of unspoken menace. He took a deliberate step forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied Rokan. "Your skill is... remarkable," he murmured, his tone veiling the suspicion that churned beneath. "Men like you are not easily overlooked. The world has ways of uncovering truths, whether one offers them willingly or not."

The leader's words lingered in the air like the edge of a blade, unsheathed but not yet swung. Rokan’s response was a slight nod, his expression composed, his tone as calm as still waters. "A healer restores what is broken," he said quietly, "and nothing more."

The leader’s lips twitched, as though caught between a smirk and a scowl, but he said no more. With a curt nod to his brothers, he turned and strode toward the door, his steps measured and precise, leaving behind a tension that refused to dissipate.

The leader’s mouth curved into a faint smirk, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of frustration. Forcing the old man would be foolish—healers, especially those with skill, were often more stubborn than warriors. The leader turned, masking his simmering ambition beneath a facade of gratitude. “Thank you, healer,” he said, his words smooth but hollow. With a final glance at the clinic, he strode out, his brothers following in his wake.

As the door closed behind them, the room seemed to exhale. Jin watched from the shadows, his chest tight. The tension lingered like the echo of a distant storm, and for a moment, he wondered if the cultivators’ departure had left more questions than answers.

Rokan sat heavily at the workbench, his hands resting on the scarred wood, fingers drumming a restless rhythm. His face was taut, his brows drawn together as though wrestling with an unseen weight. Jin approached cautiously, his own unease growing with each step.

“Uncle, what just happened?” Jin asked, his voice hesitant but filled with concern.

Rokan exhaled sharply, the sound like a hiss of steam escaping a boiling pot. He didn’t answer immediately, instead reaching for a nearby vial and inspecting its contents as though searching for solace in the task. Finally, he turned to Jin, his gaze piercing. “That was a close brush with danger, boy. Those cultivators—mark my words—they’ll be back.”

Jin frowned, confusion flickering across his face. “But why? You treated their brother, didn’t you? They even thanked you.”

Rokan snorted, the sound bitter and laced with frustration. “Gratitude is a fleeting thing, Jin, especially among those who crave power. What they saw here—what that man felt when his Qi stabilized—it’s enough to make them hungry for more.”

Jin shifted uneasily, his hands curling into fists. “What should we do if they come back?”

Rokan leaned forward, his tone lowering as though the walls themselves might betray him. “You must prepare yourself. They’ll test us, push us. You need to be ready to act wisely—to know when to stand firm and when to step aside. This isn’t just about healing anymore, boy. It’s about survival.”

Rokan lingered at the clinic’s entrance, his hand resting on the latch. The morning sun filtered through the cracks of the shutters, casting faint lines of light onto the worn wooden floor. His shoulders seemed heavier, his stance uncharacteristically still, as though the confines of the clinic weighed on him. With a sharp exhale, he pulled the latch and pushed the door open wide. The creak of the hinges broke the stillness, and a gust of fresh air rushed in, scattering the faint smell of herbs that clung to the room.

“Come,” he said, stepping outside without waiting for Jin to respond. The sunlight bathed him as he moved down the cobbled path, his pace brisk, as though putting distance between himself and the space he had just left behind. Jin hesitated before following, glancing back at the clinic, its door swinging gently on its hinges, momentarily left ajar as though it, too, was catching its breath.

With a deliberate motion, he pulled the door shut, the soft creak of wood against hinges breaking the silence. The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed faintly, carrying a sense of finality. Rokan lingered for a breath longer, his hand still on the door as though sealing something away within its confines.

Rokan’s pace quickened, his strides purposeful as if the open air offered a reprieve he desperately needed. Jin hurried after him, catching the faint murmur of voices from the waking town. The clinic stood behind them, its door firmly shut, the burdens within left behind for now.

At a modest but refined restaurant tucked into one of the quieter alleys, Rokan ordered dishes Jin had only dreamed of tasting: fragrant bowls of steaming rice, their aroma blending with the savory glaze of slow-cooked meats and the tang of pickled vegetables arranged meticulously on porcelain plates. The server bowed deeply as the dishes were laid out, and Jin hesitated, unsure whether to marvel at the food or question Rokan's sudden indulgence.

Jin hesitated, staring at the fragrant bowl of steaming rice on the table. The gleaming grains shimmered under the dim lantern light, a delicacy so rare it felt almost out of place in his hands. His memories flickered back to his days in the alleys of Seta, where rice was more myth than meal.

He had tasted it once—scraps left behind in the back alleys of a bustling teahouse, where the servants would toss out what little the patrons hadn’t devoured. He remembered crouching low, his fingers trembling as he picked a few grains from the edge of a discarded bowl. It had been cold and sticky, but the taste lingered in his memory like a secret treasure.

“Eat,” Rokan said, his voice cutting through Jin’s reverie. The old man’s chopsticks moved with a deliberate rhythm, breaking the silence as he carefully selected a bite of glazed meat to pair with the rice. Jin glanced up, finding Rokan’s gaze fixed not on the meal but on the street beyond the window, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows for something unseen.

Yet Rokan’s unease seeped into the air between them, heavier than the scent of the food that lingered on their table.

“Uncle,” Jin ventured after a moment, his voice low, “is something wrong?”

Rokan didn’t answer immediately, his chopsticks pausing mid-air before he placed them carefully onto the bowl. Jin glanced at him, trying to decipher the old man’s silence. He thought of the restless night they had barely endured, the weight of their shared exhaustion still fresh in his mind. The meal, elaborate and indulgent, felt out of place—yet Jin began to understand.

This was fuel, a quiet preparation for whatever lay ahead. Rokan’s sharp gaze flicked momentarily to Jin, his expression unreadable but steady. “Eat,” he said simply, his tone carrying a weight that silenced further questions. Jin obeyed, each bite carrying a faint taste of the unspoken tension that hung between them, as though the food itself was a silent acknowledgment of the trials to come.

As they walked toward the market, Rokan’s strides carried the deliberate weight of a warrior readying for battle. His eyes flicked over the stalls, their contents displayed like an armory of unknown tools. Without hesitation, he ignored the gaudy displays of trinkets and colorful wares, his focus narrowing to the essentials—bundles of dried herbs bound with twine, jars sealed tightly with wax, and powders stored in clay containers that whispered of potency.

At one stall, he stopped, his fingers brushing over a bundle of bitterroot before picking up a vial of viscous liquid. He held it to the light, his gaze sharp, as though searching for imperfections hidden within its cloudy depths. Satisfied, he added it to the growing pile Jin carried without a word. Each choice was measured, his movements precise, as if he were selecting not simple supplies, but tools that could tip the balance in an unseen conflict.

Jin followed closely, his arms straining under the weight of the supplies. The bundles shifted with every step, pressing against him like an unspoken burden. The bustling sounds of the market faded into the background as Jin’s attention stayed on Rokan, whose unyielding expression betrayed nothing but a singular determination. The old man moved like a general surveying a battlefield, each stop calculated, each decision deliberate.

Rokan paused at a stall laden with jars of powdered ginseng, his hand hovering over one as his sharp gaze scanned the rows. Jin hesitated behind him, the tension in the air palpable. “Uncle,” he ventured, his voice cutting through the murmur of the marketplace. “Why all this preparation? Are you expecting trouble?”

Rokan’s hand lingered over the jar for a moment longer before he turned to Jin, his expression hard and steady. “Trouble doesn’t send word ahead,” he said finally, his tone low but firm. “It comes when it chooses, and it doesn’t wait for you to be ready. That’s why we prepare.”

Jin’s grip on the bundles tightened as the weight of Rokan’s words settled over him. He glanced at the supplies in his arms, their importance now feeling far greater than he had imagined. “Do you think the cultivators will come back?” he asked, his voice quieter this time.

Rokan’s eyes sharpened, and his voice carried the certainty of experience. “They will come back. Men who crave power always do. The only question is when.”