Dawn was still a distant promise when Rokan’s voice roused Jin from thin sleep, its harsh rasp cutting the silence. Outside, the night lay hushed, and the stars hovered pale against the dark sky, as though uncertain of the coming day. “Come,” Rokan said, looming over Jin’s cot. “Time you toughen your body the way you sharpened your mind.”
A biting chill clung to the air as Jin followed the old man into the clearing behind the workshop. The last glimmer of starlight reflected in the dew, and the memory of Sage Open Sky’s words pressed at Jin’s thoughts: His body is fragile, barely holding together under the strain of his own efforts. Still, Rokan gave him no room for hesitation.
They stopped at the center of the clearing, where frost glittered on the grass. Rokan stood with arms folded, his sharp gaze direct. “These forms aren’t just exercises,” he said in a low voice. “They teach you to listen — to your body, your breath, and to Qi itself. Fail to feel the rhythm, and you fail entirely.”
Jin’s pulse thrummed with nervous energy. He planted his feet on the damp ground, inhaling shakily. Rokan demonstrated the first stance, knees bent, back tall, arms lifted as though holding a sphere of air. “This is the Foundation Form,” he explained, the crisp morning light barely illuminating his face. “Breathe low, into your belly. Hold. Then release, steady and slow.”
Jin mimicked him, but his breath snagged in his chest. Rokan stepped forward, pressing his palm lightly between Jin’s shoulder blades. “Don’t breathe so high,” he said curtly. “Push it down. Feel your diaphragm swell.”
When Jin managed a deeper inhale, a faint warmth flickered inside him. He exhaled, trying to notice that elusive sensation. Rokan nodded once. “Good. Now transition.”
His arms moved in a graceful arc, shifting weight from one foot to the other in a fluid sweep. “Flowing Arc,” he said. “It links the forms, carrying energy along. Inhale as you rise, exhale as you settle.” Jin followed, stumbling at first. Rokan’s corrections stung. “Loosen your shoulders, boy. Flow from the center.”
They repeated each stance until Jin’s breath and motion found an unsteady harmony. Despite the biting air, sweat prickled at his brow and dampened his clothes. When Rokan moved on, he introduced a stance lower to the ground, one leg extended, arms outstretched as if reaching toward the horizon. “Expanding Horizon. Short, sharp inhales through the nose, but never lose your focus.”
Jin’s thighs burned as he tried to hold the crouch, balance teetering. Panic ignited for a second when his footing slipped, but Rokan’s hand steadied him before he toppled. “Slowly,” the old man muttered, annoyance blending with a hint of concern. “Each form teaches you where your center is. You rush, you lose it.”
Hours trickled by, signaled only by the faint brightening in the east. Rokan’s critiques echoed in the clearing — about Jin’s unsteady breathing, the tension in his shoulders, or how he let his Qi scatter whenever he hurried. By the time the sun finally broke the horizon, Jin’s limbs felt like lead. Yet, an odd sense of alignment — physical and mental — stirred in him. He breathed out, finishing the last stance, and saw Rokan’s gruff nod. “Not bad for a first try,” Rokan said. “You’ve got a long way to go.”
Too drained to speak, Jin nodded. Despite the ache in every muscle, determination flickered. He would master these movements, no matter how long it took.
Later that morning, Jin sat behind the pharmacy counter, a small mortar and pestle in his hands. The day was still quiet. Patients had come and gone, leaving barely a ripple of activity, yet anxiety chewed at him. His arms were stiff from practice, and the faint throbbing in his thighs refused to let him forget the morning’s ordeal.
He paused, pestle in mid-grind, and cast a glance at the tidy stack of books Rokan insisted he study whenever time allowed. Lately, every page reminded him of his own shortcomings, each line a challenge he felt unprepared to meet. Doubt curled in his chest, coiling tighter when he recalled Sage Open Sky’s admonishment of his frailty.
Rokan, stationed at a bench sorting dried herbs, noticed Jin’s distant stare. He straightened, footsteps echoing as he crossed the room. “Why the long face?” he asked brusquely. “I can hear you sighing from over there.”
Jin’s shoulders jerked in a half-shrug. “It’s… nothing, really.”
Rokan’s dark brows furrowed. “I know the difference between nothing and sulking. You’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself to do real work.” He set the herb bundle aside, arms folding in that stern posture Jin had come to know too well. “Tell me.”
Jin’s throat tightened, rebellious anger lighting inside him. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to lie. “I just — ” He dragged his eyes to the mortar, frustration twisting his voice. “I’m struggling with everything. The forms, the studies. I worry I’m not… enough.”
Rokan’s expression hardened. “You think you should already be an expert after a few lessons? The world doesn’t bend like that.” He gestured sharply. “Weak body can be strengthened in time. But if you’ve got a weak mind or spirit, that clings to you forever.”
Jin flinched, though he realized Rokan was stating a harsh truth. “But — ” He hesitated. “What if all the effort just isn’t enough?”
Rokan’s mouth tightened, and he leveled an unwavering stare at Jin. “Don’t start that. You want to stand beside those who’ve trained all their lives? Then earn it. Step by step, day by day. That’s the only way someone like you — no special lineage, no fancy connections — can hope to catch up.”
The words hit Jin like a slap. Unfair, maybe, but also true. His teeth clenched, and he forced himself to meet Rokan’s eyes. He saw no pity there, only a challenge and a cool sort of encouragement. Finally, Rokan turned away with a grunt. “Stop wasting energy on doubt,” he said, returning to the bench. “Pick up a book if you’ve got time to brood.”
Jin sat there, jaw taut, heart pounding. Then he exhaled, letting the bitterness drain, and reached for the top book. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get, but he refused to give up before he even started.
Night draped the workshop in soft lantern glow, and Jin’s muscles still sang with pain from the morning’s practice. Scrolls lay spread across the table, their diagrams reminding him how far he had yet to climb. Every line seemed a lofty height he couldn’t quite scale, and an ache of inadequacy gnawed at him, despite the promise he’d made to try.
“I can do this,” he muttered, voice low but urgent. “Just… need to push harder.”
He rose carefully, body protesting each movement, then positioned himself in the first stance. Arms rose. Breath in, breath out. The forms replayed in his mind, pinned by Rokan’s instructions. But fatigue clung to every muscle, and each motion he tried to replicate felt stilted. By the time he attempted the second form, sweat drenched his brow. His arms trembled, his lungs tightening in protest.
Teeth gritted, he forced himself on. His body buckled before he reached the third form. A sharp twist of agony flared at his side, and he crumpled to the floor with a gasping choke. Lantern light flickered over him, revealing the sweat shimmering on his cheeks and the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Footsteps broke the hush. Rokan appeared, irritation etched into his features as he knelt beside Jin. “You idiot,” he growled. “Overreaching doesn’t build strength, it destroys you before you begin.”
Jin struggled for breath, half-tempted to retort. Yet the look on Rokan’s face — harsh though it was — held a sliver of concern. “I just… wanted to improve,” Jin rasped, voice unsteady with exhaustion.
Rokan let out a long, sharp exhale. “You improve by pacing yourself. Discipline, observation — use them or you’ll burn out. You’re no use to anyone if you break.” He stood and motioned for Jin to do the same. “Rest. Tomorrow, do it my way.”
Swallowing the sting of failure, Jin nodded. He accepted Rokan’s helping hand to stand, legs wobbling beneath him. Tomorrow, he thought, he would do better. But even so, the old man’s voice hung in the air: Stubbornness isn’t the same as strength.
At dawn the next day, news reached them that a nearby village had fallen under a mysterious illness. Rokan wasted no time gathering supplies, and Jin, despite his lingering aches, insisted on coming along. The dirt road leading there wound through low hills and thickets of bare trees. The skies hung gray, adding weight to Jin’s already tired limbs.
“Stop dragging your feet,” Rokan barked at intervals, glancing back with a scowl that might have been concern in another man’s eyes. Jin mumbled an apology, heart pounding from the effort of keeping up with Rokan’s brisk pace.
When the old man finally stopped beneath a twisted oak, he set down his pack and scowled. “Sit,” he said shortly. Jin eased onto a large rock, chest heaving. “You’re too stubborn,” Rokan continued. “Push your limits, but don’t ignore them. Strength only grows if you respect the pace your body can manage.”
Jin bowed his head, shoulders burning. The rebuke stung, though no more than the dull ache in every muscle. After a brief rest, they pressed onward, the trail meandering through patches of scrubby brush until, near midday, they saw the village.
A hush blanketed the place. Pale, gaunt figures roamed the lanes, eyes darting as though haunted by unseen shapes. Voices murmured, half-incoherent, while children clung to parents, trembling. The air felt as heavy as lead, clinging to Jin’s skin like cold dew.
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Rokan’s lips pressed thin. “This isn’t just some fever,” he muttered, scanning the sickly villagers. “Something else is here.”
In the first alley they crossed, a hunched woman whispered to an empty space beside her, wringing her hands. Farther along, a young man stared at the sky with dilated eyes, whimpering as though cornered by a phantom. Jin approached him, but the man flinched away, clutching his head.
“See their veins?” Rokan asked quietly, indicating a dark web that marred the pallor of skin. “And the chill around them. That’s Corpse Qi.” He gestured for Jin to follow, hastening to the central well. With each step, the cold seemed to intensify, and a nauseating odor lingered at the threshold of every breath.
At the well’s edge, the water rippled with an oily sheen that shimmered in the weak daylight. Jin’s stomach clenched at the acrid smell. Rokan’s voice dropped, dread lacing its gruffness. “It’s been poisoned with condensed Corpse Qi. Deliberate.”
Jin swallowed, the clammy air making it hard to breathe. “How do we get rid of it?”
“We can’t,” Rokan said grimly. “Not fully. Only a cultivator skilled in purification could cleanse it. But we can seal it, keep others away, treat the symptoms. Otherwise this place will collapse into madness.”
A faint whisper flitted near Jin’s ear, though no one stood close. He shivered, nodding. “What do you need from me?”
Rokan pulled a bundle of pungent herbs from his satchel and thrust it into Jin’s hands. “Burn these near the sick. It’ll keep them anchored in the present. I’ll prepare a concoction to slow the corruption in their blood.”
Jin forced down the crawling sense of horror. “I understand.” He turned away, cradling the herbs. Fear pounded in his pulse, but so did a new resolution — these people needed help, and he’d do whatever he could.
Jin’s day became a blur of racing from house to house, setting small fires of the sharp-smelling herbs. The smoke stung his nostrils and burned his eyes, but wherever the fumes gathered, the afflicted breathed a fraction calmer. Yet the tang of decay and a lurking chill never fully disappeared.
In one cramped hut, Jin found a boy curled in the corner, clutching his knees tight. The child’s eyes were wide, lips parted as he stared past the walls. “They’re outside,” he said, voice trembling. “They’re whispering.”
Jin crouched next to him, striking a flint to light the herb bundle. Acrid smoke wafted thick through the air, swirling around them in gray coils. The boy’s frantic breathing slowed, though the fear didn’t fully leave his eyes. Jin stayed until the child’s posture softened and the worst of his tremors eased. Outside, the muffled moans of other patients echoed across the cluster of homes.
When Jin emerged, he spotted Rokan’s stark silhouette in the village square. The old man mixed ingredients over a makeshift fire, raising a bitter-smelling steam. Villagers moved sluggishly around him, eyes glazed or flicking to invisible corners. “I need that bark,” Rokan growled at a helper fumbling with a mortar. “Grind it to powder. Hurry!”
Jin hurried closer, arms trembling from carrying water to cool the brew. Rokan poured the mixture into a small gourd, then coaxed it down an old woman’s throat. She gagged and coughed, convulsions making her veins darken momentarily, but Rokan gripped her shoulder, helping her endure the drink. After a tense moment, her breathing steadied, and some tension left her face.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Jin darted back into the fray, lighting more herb bundles where they were needed most. With each house he entered, the sense of wrongness weighed heavier. Whispers at his periphery teased him with half-formed syllables, as if conjured by the poisonous Qi. The hours dragged by, punctuated by the hiss of potions, the rasp of frightened voices, and Rokan’s barked commands.
Eventually, night pressed down, turning the small fires in the lanes to flickering beacons. Jin stumbled to a stop near a half-broken fence, heart pounding like a drumbeat in his ears. Smoke and exhaustion clung to him. His arms shook, and the simplest task — just standing upright — felt monumental.
Rokan approached, posture stiff with fatigue. His eyes swept the shrouded village where the moans had quieted somewhat, replaced by a hush more ominous than the earlier clamor. “They’ve stabilized,” he said at last, voice as flat as ever. “For now.”
Jin leaned against the fence, relief blending with lingering dread. “What if it returns?”
“It’s still here,” Rokan growled. “Corpse Qi doesn’t just vanish. We’ve managed to smother its immediate effect, but the well is still tainted. Someone else — someone with greater skill — must cleanse it.” He paused, tightening his jaw. “We’ll need to tell the Governor. This isn’t a random tragedy.”
The weight of that revelation made Jin’s chest tighten. “Why would anyone do this?”
“Could be a cultivator with a grudge, or something darker. Doesn’t matter, as long as we warn whoever can stop them.” Rokan looked away, his gaze on the murky silhouette of the sealed well in the distance. “We’ll do what we can, but the rest is out of our hands.”
Before Jin could speak, a fresh wail tore through the night. A villager had collapsed near one of the small fires, trembling violently. Rokan rushed over, rummaging through his satchel. Jin followed, heart pounding, grabbing another unlit bundle of herbs. The crisis dragged on, shadows lengthening under the trembling flames until, at last, the woman calmed.
Silence descended in the aftermath, broken only by the crackling of dying fires. Jin felt his body threatening to fold. Even Rokan’s shoulder sagged slightly. Jin wondered how the old man hid his own exhaustion so well — though the lines on his face betrayed the toll.
“What next?” Jin asked wearily.
Rokan pushed back damp strands of hair from his forehead. “Gather the rest of the supplies. Tend to anyone who shows new symptoms. We’ll seal the well properly at first light, then prepare to leave. Staying here too long without more advanced means is foolish.”
Jin nodded, swallowing against a lump of anxiety. He studied the villagers, many of them lying in makeshift shelters or on piles of blankets in the open. Their eyes were filled with a lingering terror — some stared into space, others huddled close to the sickly fires. Smoke drifted, curling into the dark sky. A nauseating reminder that though the worst might be slowed, the poison remained.
Despite the bone-deep fatigue, Jin forced himself to keep watch until Rokan signaled it was safe to rest for a moment. The sky overhead was a deep vault of darkness, broken only by a thin sliver of moon and the hush of distant stars. Unsettled thoughts churned through Jin’s mind, flitting between the horror he’d witnessed and the memory of Sage Open Sky’s whisper about a looming storm. If there were more places like this — more wells poisoned with death Qi — what chaos lay ahead?
He breathed slowly, trying to calm the trembling in his arms. If he wanted to help, he had to become stronger, steadier. He remembered Rokan’s words, as blunt as a hammer: You can mend a weak body over time, but not if your spirit cracks. Tonight had tested both. Even as fear lingered in his chest, he clung to a spark of resolve — he might be outmatched now, but he was not without a path forward.
By early dawn, the faint outline of the sealed well stood as grim proof of what they had faced. Rokan had piled heavy stones around it, coated them with bitter herbal pastes, and placed makeshift charms to ward off curious villagers. The old man circled it one last time, checking for any gap. “That’ll hold for a while,” he muttered. “It’s the best we can manage.”
Jin stood nearby, gaze drifting over the still-huddled villagers. Most lay sleeping or too exhausted to move. A few coughed or spoke fitfully in their sleep, still haunted by the phantom murmurs. At least the maddened whispers seemed to have retreated, thanks to the herbs and potions.
Rokan’s face was drawn as he packed away their meager supplies. “We’ll send word to the Governor,” he said. “Tell him this was unnatural, that a Qi cultivator or something equally dangerous is behind it.”
Jin swallowed. “Should we stay to make sure the villagers remain stable?”
Rokan fixed him with a stern look. “If we had more means, maybe. But all we can do now is keep them from using the well. The rest demands a cultivator with the proper skills.” A flicker of frustration lit his eyes. “I can mend a broken bone or calm a fever, but purifying Corpse Qi? That’s not my domain.”
Jin flexed his sore fingers, remembering how helpless he’d felt trying to fend off the illusions that had plagued the villagers. “I still wish we could do more,” he murmured.
Rokan nodded, shoulders tense. “So do I. But we’d just be in the way if we linger. Come, help me gather what’s left of our medical stock. Then we’ll speak to whomever can send the message to the Governor.”
By the time the sun rose, the strangled hush of the village had eased just slightly. A few of the less-affected residents walked with Rokan, listening to his sharp instructions on how to keep the sick calm. Jin stacked the final bundles of unburned herbs at the center of the square, explaining how to light them when the oppressive chill returned. He repeated what Rokan had told him: the smoke would chase away the worst illusions. Even so, the tense lines etched into the villagers’ faces never lifted.
Moments before departing, Jin paused at the bed of the same boy he’d found rocking in the corner the previous day. The child lay limp but breathing evenly, dark smudges under his eyes. Jin placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “You’ll be alright.” Whether the boy heard him or not, Jin couldn’t tell.
Rokan called him over, and Jin followed without protest. Together they left the village, only stopping once they reached the outskirts. Jin turned back for a moment, taking in the huddled shapes of houses and the faint pillars of smoke twisting above them. The sealed well stood out like a wound in the center of it all.
“What’s on your mind?” Rokan asked, not unkindly.
Jin tore his eyes away, trudging forward. “I can’t stop thinking about who — about why someone would do that.”
Rokan shook his head. “You and me both, boy. The world’s full of madness. But don’t drown in questions you can’t answer.” He paused. “Focus on what you must do next. Don’t let this rattle your nerve.”
Jin nodded, though a dark cloud of unease still loomed in his thoughts. The road back felt longer, every step heavy with the memory of that rank odor and the sight of blackened veins. Yet a spark in him refused to be snuffed out. He might be weak now, might have no special lineage or gifts, but he carried a will to learn, to endure — and perhaps that would make a difference someday.
Sage Open Sky’s voice lingered at the edges of his mind: Beware the storm that gathers unseen. Jin imagined that vile shimmer on the water’s surface, the hush broken by fearful whispers. If that was only a glimmer of the storm, then bigger trials lay ahead. It frightened him, but also steeled something in his core. Perhaps this was a call to fortify his spirit as well as his body.
Rokan walked on, quiet for once, as if lost in his own calculations about the danger they’d just witnessed. Jin matched his steps, ignoring the exhaustion gnawing at his muscles. Morning light spread across the hills, weaving pale gold over the harsh lines of the barren trees. Each breath they took was free of the foul corruption, and for that, Jin felt a thankful pang.
Even so, the memory of the hushed village stayed with him, casting shadows on the road ahead. He glanced at Rokan, noticing the set of the old man’s jaw — the same determination. They would report what happened and keep forging ahead, lesson by painful lesson. A path had emerged from the darkness, uncertain though it was. They would follow it, trusting that each small step might lead them closer to unraveling the mysteries that lay behind that poisoned well.