Ming’s sleeping mat crinkled as he pushed himself into a sitting position. His hut was small yet welcoming, and his feet touched not floor but sand as he removed a petite crustacean—now radiating an unhappy crimson—from his leg.
Ming prodded it toward the entrance, but it refused to move of its own volition, and eventually he gave up, putting it outside himself.
He dressed himself with one of his three sets of raggedy clothes, resolved to make it to sect recruitment this year. Maybe then he could bring honor to himself and his uncle.
He cast his gaze to the door. The divine rays of the sun had not yet graced Minglao Island. The sea beyond was a dark and foreboding creature. His uncle slept on the other side of the hut, quietly snoring.
Ming splashed some of the stagnant water from the basin in the corner of his room on his face. He couldn’t see himself properly, but he knew he was dirty—Ming was rarely pristine, but he did the best he could.
The boy sighed in resignation at the sight of himself. Ming was only twelve winters, but a light scar ran down his otherwise tanned skin from head to toe, occasionally swirling and switching from side to side. He’d always had it. It looked similar to the ornamental gold leaf that the village women would use to repair ceramics, and perhaps it was because of this optimistic thought that he didn’t mind it so much, himself.
Ming stepped out of his abode, dried leaves brushing past him as he pushed through his makeshift door. Beetles crawled on the entrance, eating away at it, but he was too excited to bother swatting at them.
He closed the door, and it was through the rustling of said leaves that Ming failed to notice an older boy approaching from behind.
“What’s the island’s disappointment up to this early?” Wen Xiu, a boy of nearly fourteen winters, whispered into his ear, causing Ming to stumble back into the insect-coated door.
After taking a brief moment to swat the assailants off himself, Ming fell into a bow, scared Xiu would attack him. “This one did not mean to disturb Senior Brother Xiu on his morning walk. This one is sincerely sorry for the inconvenience this one has caused.” Ming bowed deeper.
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Xiu said, chuckling. “Just a little friendly riffing, that’s all.”
“This one appreciates Brother Xiu’s kindness,” Ming replied, no longer bowing. “May the Enlightened Chrysanthemum unravel the mysteries of the Dao.” The Enlightened Chrysanthemum sect protected Ming’s village with their influence, though they rarely ventured down their mountain besides to collect taxes.
“But you’re not planning on attending recruitment today, are you?” Xiu asked, playing with a strand of his own curly black hair.
The color drained from Ming’s cheeks. “This one planned to help with the preparations,” he lied.
“That won’t be necessary. The preparations were complete last night.”
“Is that so? Perhaps this one could catch some fish for the festival, then.”
“All the preparations are complete.”
“Senior Brother—”
“Don’t call me that,” Xiu interrupted. “You’re barely a member of this village. Adopted. If the elders had any sense in them they would’ve sent you back from where you came the second you were old enough to row a canoe.” A hint of blush appeared in his ears, and he seemed to realize his misstep.
“Apologies, Senior Xiu, but I could never question the elders’ decision.” Ming quipped back.
Xiu frowned. “A weed like you should stay in the brush,” he said. The older boy took an exaggerated step forward and slammed his hand into Ming’s face, pushing him backward and off the beaten path. Xiu crushed Ming’s hands under his, pinning him to the ground, aspected qi cascading into the nearby earth—wood qi. It stung, as did the contact. “You won’t be at the Awakening.”
Roots sprung from the ground, binding Ming’s hands. Still, he refused to react, laying still in silent defiance. He had been humiliated enough times that it barely phased him anymore, but Xiu was dangerous. Unstable. A tingling feeling raced across his scar, a blinding migraine erupting in his mind. It was a familiar, unwelcome misery. The mere proximity was causing him immense physical pain, for a reason that Ming could not begin to understand—and yet agony wracked his senses all the same, running along the scar and settling in his mind, where a tempest roiled on.
Xiu laughed, kneeling next to Ming’s face. “If you still think you have a chance at going, you’re completely delusional. I don’t know where you found some pride, but you should put it back before someone notices it’s gone missing.”
The unmistakable sound of a blade being unsheathed rang through the air. Ming squirmed in the sandy earth in response, but the roots held strong. Cold metal pressed against his neck; a spike of acute pain and wetness followed as the makeshift scimitar slid across his collar. He could tell it was only a shallow wound; and, with the raging headache, he hadn’t actually felt the cut, but it set a dangerous precedent.
Sweat ran down his forehead as he tried to come up with something, anything, that could save him. “Xiu,” Ming pleaded, “It would be beneath you to kill your junior. Please. I’m not even a cultivator.”
Xiu only looked at him with obvious disgust. With a flick of Xiu’s wrist, Ming’s shirt had been sliced across the front, entirely dismembered, exposing the old wound he’d always bore. “Pathetic. I’ll leave that task to someone else,” he said, walking off. The pain finally started to subside as he fell out of sight, though it took a few minutes to go away entirely.
He wasn’t entirely sure how long he laid there, silent, but the sun had long risen when someone else approached his undignified form.
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“Ming?” A girl’s voice called. “What are you doing down there? It’s dirty, you know.”
Ming might have chuckled if he wasn’t stuck on the ground, covered in blood and dirt.
“I am truly sorry if this one’s pitiful state has insulted you. Honored Sister Shomei. Would you show this one Honored Shomei’s limitless mercy and grace by unbinding this one?” Ming asked.
Chen Shomei approached him wearily, as if he were some deranged animal. She shrugged, leaning over him and slipping small hands under the pinned backs of his. “If I must,” she said, and the earth turned muddy, saturated with water, as she drilled her own qi into it.
The pain started again as she touched him, though it was not even a tenth of the migraine he had felt from Xiu. It was like he was being warded from connection. He ignored it. The roots slipped off easily with no foundation.
“This one feels truly honored to be in the presence of such boundless kindness,” Ming said, the migraine fading as she pulled away from him.
“I already did what you asked, so you can stop playing the part. I know you hate the sect.”
Ming said nothing for a few moments, sloughing the remaining roots from his arms, but eventually the pain became unbearable again.
“I don’t hate all of them.” More specifically, he didn’t hate her. “It is only because of the Enlightened Chrysanthemum sect that I live today.” And just like that, the impossible pain threatening to split his mind apart and the pins and needles running down his body finally dissipated. In the end, it was his Honored Uncle that had taken him in, though a junior sect member had been the one to find him on the open ocean. Ming couldn’t remember any of it, but apparently the mystery had caused something of a commotion at the time.
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“Whatever,” Shomei said. “See you at recruitment.” She brushed his messy hair back from his face, and suddenly the terrible headache returned. He quickly pulled away, and she frowned. She had only left the village to join the sect a year ago, when she had turned twelve and received her own parcel of coredust, but it already seemed so long ago. Her touch never used to hurt.
“See you,” he said. He returned to his hut to change into his spare set of clothes, unwashed as they were, and did his best to clean up.
Ming despaired at the sight of recruitment. Seven of his peers were seated at a long table—each had their own bowl of coredust, an alchemical reagent that would rouse their latent talent and hopefully allow them to cultivate one of the sacred five elements. That was all typical, of course, but there were only seven seats.
Either the village elders had forgotten about him, or they had done it on purpose.
Ming decided to feign ignorance. He walked up to the table, ignoring whispered protests from some of the villagers as he passed through the aisles.
Finally, when he stood in front of the elders, he spoke up.
“Honored Patriarch Zhu, this one would like to participate in the Awakening,” Ming said, bowing deeply.
“Ming,” the disheveled man spoke softly, “There is not enough coredust for another this year. Return to your duties.”
Shomei only gave him a disappointed look from behind the man, as if she had expected better of Ming. What was that about? What choice did he have in the matter?
Zhu's word was law, and Ming knew acting against him would only result in a beating, so he backed down quickly. Zhu’s cultivation exerted pressure on those nearby, even when he wasn’t trying—he was a prodigy in his youth, and had managed to attain the third and highest stage of cultivation any islander had reached in known history: Peak Initiate. Even in his old age he was unmatched in a fight—the ability to wield techniques made him a truly formidable opponent. It would be deeply unwise to anger him.
“This one understands his unworthiness,” Ming said somberly, though he had already begun to plot. Ming did not in fact leave, but instead made a bend around the ritual area to watch as his peers imbibed the powder.
The young adults fell ill at even the slightest taste of the dust, slipping out of their seats and to the ground as their bodies were wracked with the sudden infusion of qi. One managed to stay seated—Shomei’s brother, Chen Bo. The others seized, mouths frothing as power rolled off them in waves.
It seemed an effective strategy to create cultivators, if a bold one.
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“Why do they hate me?” Ming asked the old man. “What did I do?”
Li Guren paused the pulling of nets to look at the boy with the scar sitting in the back of his canoe, before he noticed a peculiar fish caught in the seemingly endless trap, awash with azure light. He deftly scooped up more of the net, dropping the fish into the boat, before he replied.
“I don’t know, little one,” the grizzled man said, tousling Ming’s straight, raven hair. “But perhaps it is better this way,” he said. “Chasing power for power’s sake is a folly endeavor. A child died, and for what?” Guren shook his head. “The player is lost; the watcher is lucid.” Few would dare question the elders so openly, but he was just a crazy old man. Senile, or so they thought.
Li Ming harrumphed, casting his gaze at the sparkling water trailing their vessel. It was a fine, sunny day, and it felt entirely wrong. A moment of silence passed before he looked back, curious.
“Is that a spirit beast, Uncle Guren?” Ming asked, forgetting his troubles with the other island children as he pointed to the creature flopping around on the floor of the canoe. Ming had never seen a spirit beast before, but the fish had an odd beauty to it. Through translucent skin, he could see what he thought was a brilliant blue marble, positioned right between its eyes. Its flesh shone with a faint cerulean glow.
“It’s dinner,” Guren said, chuckling to himself as he pulled out a filet knife, two fingers coming up to shush Ming. “And our little secret, for now.” He sent his knife straight through its eye, and it was dead. Guren bowed to the fish, paying his respects, and Ming mirrored him.
He soon set to work trying for a clean cross-section to start the filet, but the knife could not penetrate the hard scales of the fish. Guren frowned, pulling out his whetstone. Ming clambered up the canoe to sit beside him, leaning into Guren as he sharpened his knife. The two sat silently as Guren continued his fruitless efforts to find a chink in the fish’s armor.
Ming watched the knife fall. It was inevitable, but futile. Ming began to cry. His tears fell onto the skin of the fish, and Guren’s blade found purchase. So Guren finished his job, setting the filets aside in two little boxes and slipping the core into his robes, before pulling the boy into an embrace. Guren patted his head.
“Don't let yourself grow bitter, Ming.” Guren paused, lost in thought, before speaking up again. “Water drops pierce stone; rope saws cut wood,” he said.
His uncle stood, silently handed him one of the boxes, smiling. Sashimi from the spirit beast, with rice and a savory-sweet root sauce. It was heavenly, and each bite of the rare delicacy filled him with energy… only firming his resolve. He would outgrow this island. If he couldn’t have their affection, he would force them to acknowledge his superior cultivation. Or he would leave this godforsaken place. That, at least, he could control. They ate together, and Ming’s worries began to slip away, knots in his mind unraveling as qi surged through his muscles. His blood burned hot with the endowment of a spirit beast, scraping away at an intangible barrier in his body that he could barely sense. But this little fish was more than just a beginning to Ming—it was an ending. No longer would Ming be a helpless child.
The unruly spirit beast flesh pulsated in his stomach, and Uncle instructed him in how to absorb it: a complex, centering meditation that felt almost like he was weaving strands of power into himself. Guren had briefly mentioned it was merely an extension of the forms he had already taught Ming.
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Ming sat awake the next morning in a cold sweat, black tar flowing from his every pore. He hadn’t slept a wink, instead focused entirely on cycling the precious meat he had been gifted. His heart pounded in his chest, and he rapidly drew breath. A spot near his stomach flared with qi—the remaining spirit beast flesh felt like electricity, if electricity was a delicious indulgence, as it was absorbed into his body. He caught the last flash, tugging on the sensation and drawing it back to him before it could escape. The rushing river of qi from the fish faded to a dull trickle as the last of the putrid substance—impurities he had accumulated as a mortal—spilled from his orifices.
Uncle Guren lay on the sleeping mat beside him, holding his nose. “It’s the middle of the night, boy. I would’ve preferred the canoe,” he quipped.
Ming rolled his eyes, smiling. This could only mean one thing—he had broken through to the first stage of cultivation. He was an Early Stage Initiate—a real cultivator!
He had some cleaning to do, but he was excited. Perhaps if he could someday reach Peak Initiate, he could even compete with the Patriarch for the clan heritage.
Ming shook the idle fantasy out of his head. His clothes and sleeping mat were likely ruined—it was doubtful he could ever get the stench out—so he wiped his hands on them before grabbing one of his other two sets of clothing and stowing it in the clean side of the rolled mat. He left for the shore to rinse everything, including himself, but just before he rounded the corner his uncle called him back.
“Ming,” he said.
“Yes?” Ming looked back.
“Nothing, I suppose…” the old man paused. “I love you, kid.”
Ming grinned. “Love you, Uncle!” he shouted back as he ran off.
He would have to buy another set of clothing from Wu Ten to replace the soiled ones, but he had been saving up jade pieces ever since Guren had agreed to teach him set-netting a few seasons past. It wasn’t like hanging out in the village was much fun, so he had figured he might as well have been making some money.
Bare feet touched sand as Ming arrived at the roiling waves of the ocean, stripping down and thoroughly scrubbing his belongings and himself. The black substance mostly came off his bedroll, thankfully, but his old clothes did appear to be ruined.
He soon headed back to the island village, where he found the Patriarch, Minglao Zhu—it was customary for the head family to take the name of the island as their own—having words with his Honored Uncle in front of their homely shack. The scent of the black tar still hung in the air, burning his nose as he approached.
“Patriarch,” Ming acknowledged, bowing deeply. “To what does this one owe the pleasure?”
“Initiate Ming,” Patriarch Zhu turned, “I see that you have cleaned yourself of your filth. Good.” He nodded. “It is a long and arduous climb to the Heavens. Experience will temper power.” Zhu turned back to Ming’s uncle, but he was gone. Incredulity found its way into Zhu’s eyes for a brief moment before he remembered himself. Ming frowned; he hadn’t seen Guren leave either. Zhu paused, contemplating. “I have a lesson for you. Wait for me at the Iridescent Lake Sanctuary.”
Ming merely bowed again, before stowing his bedroll and leaving. He was tired from a sleepless night, but invigorated by the step he had taken on his path.
He began the mostly pleasant walk to the Iridescent Lake Sanctuary, pondering what Patriarch Zhu might want to teach him. He wouldn’t dare disobey, so he didn’t entertain the thought of leaving for long, though the guilt began to eat away at him—he didn’t think they they had done anything wrong by consuming the spirit beast meat, so long as they turned in the core, but perhaps Zhu was planning on showing him some ‘pointers’ in retaliation. After all, it was possible that spirit beast flesh could have allowed his own son to reach the Early Initiate stage, as he wasn’t a cultivator yet, himself.
Ming cleared the thought from his mind, beginning to practice forms as Guren had taught him. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Zhu was probably just going to welcome him to the world of cultivation. Hopefully.
His mind enjoyed a new clarity as he continued executing his forms, taking steps and performing strikes next to one of the old willow trees by the water. He felt weightless. Each movement was executed far quicker and more gracefully than he had been previously capable of, qi flowing through his channels.