The wind tore viciously at Zhuding’s shirt, causing it to whip and snap wildly. He stood knee-deep in the muddy waters of the rice field, hands aching from constant labor. He looked up at the sky: only another hour or so until sundown. Everyone else had long since returned home. He turned back to his work, frustratedly cutting rice stalks and putting them in his basket. So much wasted time.

Eventually the light ran thin, and he hoisted his wicker basket. Step by careful step, he made the journey back up the mountain through the marshy fields of grain. As he walked, a wyvern lithely glided through the air far above. He stopped and looked at it for a moment. For a moment, its silver and red scales briefly caught the moonlight and shone. They weren’t an uncommon sight there in the foothills of Shanjin, but Zhuding had always envied them – envied their freedom: freedom that came with an undeniable power and an understanding of where that power placed them in the world.

As the wyvern slid silently behind the neighboring Quixin mountains, Zhuding continued on his journey, by then little over halfway home. By the time a half hour had passed, he stood finally above the basin that held his home. The air was thin here near the summit of the mountain but kept the village cool and comfortable. Firelight shone through the windows warmly, giving the village a comfortable glow. However, as Zhuding descended the stone-carved steps down the wall of the basin, he realized that he no longer found his village’s atmosphere comforting. He found it suffocating. The longer he lived, and the more days he spent hoisting his wicker basket and pulling at weeds in the muddy water, the more he found his home stifling. He wasn’t surprised that he felt this way – it had been building up for years now – but it was the first time that he had admitted it to himself.

As he reflected on these new, old feelings, he took the final few steps onto the basin floor and went down the central street to his house. There were few people out at this time: no children, and only the young adults. Everyone else would be asleep to get an early start on the next day. He would be, too, if he hadn’t wasted his morning avoiding the fields by exploring the sheer side of the mountain. The local blacksmith passed him by, giving him an amused glance. He was a man whose features were like his own, save for a decade or two and an intense hardness in his eyes. Hair closely cut, tall, and fit, his hands and arms were weathered from his years of hard work at the forge. As he passed, Zhuding looked back at him, wondering what he found so amusing. He had seen him here his whole life, but had never so much as talked to the man.

Before he turned down the side street to his home, he looked up resentfully at the Lord’s manor at the end of the main road. Though it wasn’t huge, to Zhuding’s eyes, it was decadent, almost wasteful. It made him want to spit. Undeniable power, and an understanding of where that power placed you. He broke his glare and turned down the side street.

Wooden houses on either side of him made the dirt street narrow, and the water running off his still-damp boots turned the top layer to mud. He walked up to a door and let himself in. His mother and father were there in the dining room, setting the table with dinner. His father was a stout man, body weathered from his years in the military and hardened from the long hours spent in the fields with Zhuding. His mother, a smaller woman with long hair and a kind smile and a gentle face, sat at the table. His father sat down, and his mother smiled at him as he walked in.

“Welcome home, Zhuding. Did you have a nice walk back? You were out so late.”

Zhuding took off his shoes and replied, “It was fine, Mama. I just had to catch up on yesterday’s harvest.” He suddenly realized he was still wearing his wicker basket. He felt his father’s scrutinizing gaze on him and groaned internally as his father spoke up.

His father tapped his fingers on the table. “You forgot to drop off your harvest again, Zhuding.” He paused for a moment, disapproval hanging in the air. “Is there something wrong with you?” his father reprimanded in his scratchy voice. “Perhaps you’d remember how fragile our situation is if you spent less time wandering and more time focusing on providing for your mother.”

Zhuding tried not to let out an irritated sigh, composed himself “My apologies, father.”

“Go turn it in, and your meal will be here when you get back. We can’t afford to get into more trouble with the Lord.” He then promptly ignored him as he began eating. His mother gave him an apologetic glance and began eating as well.

Zhuding, frustration burning in his chest, again put on his damp boots and left the house. As he walked down the street, now dimmer for those who had put out their lanterns before sleeping, he let his frustration simmer. Years and years of repetition, and still he forgot the simplest things – yet those things had the strangest consequences. Forget to drop off a basket of grain, and you’ll be accused of hoarding. Forget to return your knife, and you’ll be accused of stealing. More and more, he felt trapped by the small world he lived in. He wanted something more.

On his way to the drying bin, he again passed the blacksmith. He was next to his home working in his open-air workshop. Zhuding walked and watched him as he worked idly on the knife in his hand, oblivious to Zhuding’s gaze. The blacksmith then happened to look up and meet Zhuding’s gaze, who looked away, embarrassed. The blacksmith looked at the basket on his back and smiled amusedly.

“The walk of shame,” he said, apparently to himself, yet loud enough for Zhuding to hear. Zhuding’s face burned, and he looked away, speeding up his walk towards his destination.

The grain dump was a squat building near the edge of the basin, positioned near the stairs for any returning field workers like himself to dump their loads. He emptied his basket and placed it with the others before starting back home. On the return trip, he once again passed the blacksmith easily working on his small knife, sharpening and polishing it as he leaned back in his chair. They once again met each other’s gaze, but instead of seeing the amusement he saw earlier, Zhuding saw sympathy in his eyes, and a hint of something he couldn’t decipher. He looked away, ready to go home and meet the next gray day, when the blacksmith spoke.

“I’ve seen you out there, some mornings,” he stated.

Zhuding turned back to look at him, head tilted in question. The man hadn’t looked away from his work and still sat relaxed, unhurriedly sharpened the small blade, dragging the whetstone back and forth, up and over. Shhk, shhk.

“Out there on the sheer side of the mountain, when most spend the cool hours collecting their harvest. You’ll sit on a sheer ledge and look out to the east for hours.” He stopped, then, and looked over at him with a sidelong glance. “What is it you see out there?”

Zhuding didn’t know what to say. Some mornings he woke up and regarded the day ahead, the suffocating weight of a day spent the same way as the fifty before it, and found he couldn’t face it. Those mornings he went east, directly opposite of the gentle slopes containing the marshes of grain, towards the sheer side of the mountain. What seemed like a straight, sudden drop, when approached, turned into a challenge of handholds and footholds. It had taken Zhuding many hours over many such mornings to find a safe way down that barren cliff face, but once he had done so, he found a place to sit and be away from the life he had grown to dread. One could see for leagues, sitting on that ledge, see the forests and fields and mountains and towns that existed outside the tiny sphere that was his world. Some mornings, he sat on that ledge for hours, and lusted after the lives he could lead down there.

And those mornings, he thought he was alone. How could this weathered village blacksmith have seen him out there?

The blacksmith let the question hang and, resuming his work, spoke up again. “You know, boy, you remind me of myself. You and I both have a wandering soul.” He held the knife up to the moonlight, sheathed it, and tossed it over to Zhuding. “I’ll show you somewhere else you can wander. We restless spirits always need new ground to tread.” With that, he stood up and strolled off of his workshop deck and back into his home.

Zhuding’s gaze lingered a moment on the door before he shook off his confusion. That blacksmith had said “some morning”. How long had he seen him down there? Shaking his head, he partially unsheathed the knife the blacksmith gave him and gasped. It was beautifully crafted, with intricate decorations etched on the hilt and handle. Along the blade, flawlessly etched, ran a sinuous dragon, head reaching towards the tip. Removing it fully from the sheath, he turned it back and forth, admiring the handiwork. A piece like this would be incredibly expensive – fit for a lord or lord’s child. Confusion intensified by this strange gift, he looked once more at the blacksmith’s door and shook his head before finally heading home and getting some rest.

He woke the next day an hour ahead of the sun. Rising reluctantly from bed, deprived of rest, he got dressed, ate the breakfast laid out for him, and headed towards the door. Leaving the house, he adjusted the straw brim of his hat and felt the sheath of the intricate knife at his belt as though to make sure it was still there.

The moon was still out, and he followed the familiar route through the village on the way to the fields, steeling himself for another monotonous day. However, he then remembered the conversation with the blacksmith, overshadowed by the strange gift –that he’d show him another ‘place to wander’. The conversation had been rather one-sided; perhaps he would be prepared this time to ask some questions.

He turned onto the main street through the village center and saw near the stairs out of the basin the blacksmith lounging on his workshop deck. Zhuding wondered whether it could be called a workshop when it seemed to be mainly used for lounging. As he approached, the blacksmith stood, waved, and turned towards the grand stone steps out of the basin as though he expected Zhuding to follow. Zhuding had wanted to ask any number of questions but had to cut himself off unless he was left behind by the strange blacksmith. By the time he reached the base of the basin stairs, the blacksmith was already halfway up. Zhuding huffed as he climbed the stairs with more zeal than he ever had, yet no matter how quickly he climbed the steps, the blacksmith seemed to match his pace without changing his stride or breaking from a stroll.

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Zhuding reached the top of the stairs, beginning to get slightly frustrated. How could he ask this man who he was, how he had seen him, where they were going, if he couldn’t even catch up to him? Coming out of his head, he looked around. Where the hell had that blacksmith gone? The moonlit rice fields showed no strolling men in white, and neither did the rocky, mossy plateaus to either side. He looked behind him, to the east, and saw the unhurried figure going up the gentle slope towards the mountain’s sheer side. He would be a minute’s run to catch up with, at least. How had he gotten so far ahead, and at a stroll? Familiar frustration began to simmer in his chest. Who was this man to toy with him?

“WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU GOING, OLD MAN?” Zhuding called over to him. The blacksmith simply looked over his shoulder and smiled mischievously, continuing towards his mysterious destination. Zhuding realized that he had shouted directly over the village basin; everyone still down there had probably heard him. He turned a bit red, embarrassed at letting his anger boil over, and took off to try and catch up with the obnoxious blacksmith. The wind was strong on the mountain today, and his shirt flapped wildly in the wind as he tried to catch up.

He finally caught up with the blacksmith at the edge of the cliff face, where he stood looking out at the night-covered miles of expanse to the east. Zhuding watched him stare for a minute or so, hesitant to break the silence, when the frustration from a few minutes before boiled up, renewed.

“Where are you taking me? How did you see me down on the ledge? And when, for that matter?” Zhuding insisted. The blacksmith didn’t seem to respond, and when Zhuding opened his mouth to snap at him, he was cut off by the blacksmith’s reply.

“I’d answer your questions, but you never answered mine.” He turned to look at Zhuding. “What is it you see out there?” He gestured out to the valley below the mountain.

Zhuding felt his frustration evaporate, unprepared for the question. He touched the knife hilt at his waist.

“I suppose…” he broke the blacksmith’s gaze. “… I see freedom.”

The blacksmith cocked his head. “But are you not free?”

Zhuding shook his head. “My life’s burdens keep me tied here. How can I be free when my mother and father rely on me?”

The blacksmith smiled. “Ahh, but you are free. You may not be free to leave, true – but you are always free to grow.” He turned back to the view of the cliff face. “I think I’ll postpone our trip – a good view is nice, but your time would be better spent with me showing you something more useful.” He turned to Zhuding, glanced at his belt. “I see you have the knife I gave you. Draw it.”

Zhuding furrowed his brow, confused, but complied.

The blacksmith quickly drew a knife of his own and raised it. “Defend.”

The blacksmith rushed Zhuding, swiping ruthlessly. Zhuding reacted on instinct, blocking frantically. He began to panic. He was being attacked. The blacksmith struck repeatedly, the force of his swipes causing Zhuding to back up.

In that moment, he thought he would die.

After only a few seconds, the dragon-etched knife lay on the ground and the blacksmith’s cruelly pointed dagger was held at his throat. Zhuding felt he would be sick, but stood frozen, daring not to move.

The blacksmith had a much different air, this close. The seasoned, laid-back air took on a cast hard as steel, stained as blood. This was a man who had done terrible things. He held the blade at Zhuding’s neck for another moment, shifted it slightly to poke his neck tightly.

He dragged the tip of the knife down Zhuding’s neck slowly, leaned in and spoke in a low voice. “That feeling you feel now… the helplessness… the knowledge that nothing you can do could save you… that is true freedom.” He removed the knife and Zhuding instantly collapsed to the ground, gasping shaky breaths. “I don’t expect you to believe, or even understand me right now. But you will come to understand.” He sheathed his knife, picked Zhuding’s off of the ground. “If you wish it, I will leave the village now, and never return. You can return to your… life.” He held the knife out by the blade, offering it to Zhuding. “But if truly wish to be free from the burdens that bind you, I will stay and offer you another path.”

Zhuding stared at the ground, on his knees, shaking, sweat trickling down his brow. He heard the blacksmith’s words and thought of the years he would spend with this same life. He would toil for endless hours in the fields, barely supporting his mother, tolerating the ceaseless disapproval from his father, all the while fattening the lord and his spoiled children. He contemplated it, and found that no matter what, he couldn’t face that life. He looked up at the blacksmith and took the knife from his hand. “Who are you?” Zhuding asked.

The sun began to rise, silhouetting the man in front of him. “I am Hedao,” he said.

* * *

And so, each morning Zhuding would get up an hour before the sun and head east rather than west each morning. Each morning he would practice with Hedao until the sun rose, until his bones ached, and he was so exhausted he wondered he would be able to walk. He would make his way to the fields and collect his harvest, even if it took him until long after everyone else had left, and make his way back home under the moonlight.

Months passed this way, and Zhuding became fitter and fitter, more and more deft with his knife. Each roadblock and obstacle in his training fueled his anger, his fear that he would be trapped in his monotonous life, and that anger and fear always pushed him through. Through the months, he trained this way, until one morning Zhuding asked Hedao a question that had never left his mind. They were looking out over the moonlit landscape, as they did most mornings before beginning his training.

"Hedao,” Zhuding began, “How did you know of the mornings I would spend on the cliff face? Why did you watch me? Why did you let me know that you did?”

Hedao didn’t reply immediately, eyes still searching the east. His hand rested on his knife hilt at his waist. He finally spoke: “I think I’ll show you that place I was telling you about. The one where those like us can wander.” He turned to look at him. “Would you like that, Zhuding?”

Zhuding was taken aback a moment, then despite himself, allowed some frustration to rise. “No, Hedao. I’d like you to answer my questions.” Hedao looked at him stoicly, and Zhuding’s frustration went from simmer to boil. “I’ve worked for hours at your whim, sacrificed my health, my sleep, and I think I deserve some answers—"

Zhuding’s rant was silenced when the blacksmith laid a hand on his shoulder. The moment his hand touched him, he felt an incredible pressure – a suffocating atmosphere that consumed him until he could not see. As darkness consumed his vision, he felt his being slip, become insubstantial, and felt himself flow. He couldn’t discern how much time had passed, but eventually, he once more became aware of the blacksmith’s hand, now releasing his shoulder. The oppressive pressure instantly ceased, and Zhuding opened his eyes. He found himself sitting across from Hedao on a pillar of stone surrounded on all sides in a perfect circle by impossibly high waterfalls. Zhuding opened his mouth, too shocked to speak.

The blacksmith looked at him, looked up at the towering waterfall that crashed around them. He spoke: “You are a farmer, Zhuding. You’re familiar with the process of cultivation; you’ve performed it hundreds, thousands of times. Tilling the soil and bringing it into order, of planting the grain and ensuring that it flourishes, of harvesting it and refining it into something one can use.” He paused for a minute, closed his eyes, listened to the deafening crash of waterfall below.

“There is another type of cultivation, Zhuding, one which I used to practice: one of the body, spirit, and the mind.” He touched his chest. “The body is the soil which you must purify, the foundation upon which everything else grows.” He touched his collarbone. “The spirit is the seed which you cultivate in the soil, both the goal and the method through which you attain it.” He touched his temple. “The mind is the hand that separates the wheat from the chaff, the channel through which you shape the spirit into forms that are useful.” He looked meaningfully at Zhuding. “Cultivation is the purest way known of purifying one’s being, of becoming closer in spirit to that of a heavenly being. To those who can persist despite its trials, it represents untold, infinite power; but only to those who can persist – no easy feat.” His gaze on Zhuding hardened. “One who starts on this path may walk no other. I must know that you mean to walk it before I set you down it.”

Zhuding’s mind reeled, attempting to process what Hedao had just told him. Purifying one’s spirit, heavenly beings…. Untold power. He pictured the wyvern gliding effortlessly through the air, pictured Hedao holding his life in his hands. He met Hedao’s gaze.

“Tell me what I need to know.”

Hedao paused a moment, nodded. He rested his hands on his knees. “For every art form, there exist different school of thought when it comes to its practice. It is no different for Cultivation. There are as many methods of cultivation as there are practitioners. However, the method I know, and the one I will teach you now, is the Waterfall form.”

“To begin, you must connect to your dantian.” Hedao rested his hand near his solar plexus. “This is the area in the body where the spirit tends to rest. In those who have not learned to cultivate their spirit, it tends to be stagnant, and if it flows at all, flows weakly. Can you feel it?”

Zhuding touched the same spot on his own body near his stomach. He closed his eyes, listened to the thunderous water below. He sat there for a time, trying to feel the spirit that supposedly rested there. Longer and longer he waited, growing more and more frustrated each time. Could this old blacksmith be playing a joke on him? Yet, he had brought him to this strange place – an impossibility, or so he thought. No, he must be telling the truth, and Zhuding was just incompetent!

A spike of anger ran through him, and tuned as he was, he felt a jolt he couldn’t describe. He realized what he had felt, and cried out, “I felt it! I felt it!”

“Good,” said Hedao, “then you are one of the lucky few. Not many people can sense their spirit – a deficiency that makes cultivating nearly impossible. If you could sense it with so little instruction, you may have an aptitude for this.” He smiled. He actually smiled. Zhuding shivered a bit internally.

“The next step,” continued Hedao, “you might have a bit more trouble with. You must let go – let go of everything. Let go as completely as you did the first time I attacked you.”

Zhuding froze. He had nearly forgotten that day, months ago, when he thought Hedao was about to kill him. He tried to remember that feeling of helplessness, of impotence, and flinched. “I can’t do that. I can’t.”

Hedao frowned. “You must. Your spirit will not flow if you cling to life like a scared insect. You must give it up completely, and only then will you be free to shape it, just as the land is only free to shape the river once it gives way.”

Zhuding frowned, but tried to do as Hedao asked. He closed his eyes, thought of the knife pointed to his neck, the realization that his life had been insignificant, pointless, joyless. He felt the emptiness of his life reach up, reach around, creep in, consume him –

Zhuding sprang up, panting. “You’re insane. I can’t do this. This is pointless.” He looked around at the waterfalls surrounding him, looked up at the sky reduced to a pinprick. “Where the hell is this, anyway? Take me back. I’ll find another way.” The stone pillar beneath them was smaller than he had realized. He looked down – quite a drop. He began to feel dizzy.

Hedao bowed his head, shook it slightly. “I asked for your word. You said you were ready to walk this path.”

“Well, you’re asking something of me that I can’t give. That’s not my fault. Take me back.”

Hedao stood, robes dampened by the mist. “There is one way I can think of to make you let go. I hope you have it in you. I trust that you can.” He slowly walked towards Zhuding.

Zhuding took a step back, stumbled as his heels met the edge of the pillar. He looked back at the drop below, and then towards Hedao. “What are you doing? Stop it. Take me out of this place!”

Hedao shoved him over the drop and grabbed his shirt. Zhuding felt a panic like no other come over him. Ice ran through his veins, sweat breaking out over his forehead. “Hedao! What the hell are you doing?!” he screamed. He was dangling over the edge, heels gripping the edge, arms flailing, only held up by his shirt balled up in Hedao’s fist.

Hedao leaned in towards him and spoke in a low voice. “You can. I’ve seen you do it. Just let. Go.”

And he let go.