“It is the most fundamental of truths that qi flows through all living creatures.” The old willow wilted as Minglao Zhu sapped the ambient power from the space around it. It leaned gently in the wind toward the man, as if he had stolen the sun.
He continued, “But it doesn’t just flow through them. They draw it in. Require it. They cannot live without it, Ming. In this way, we all sustain each other; we are all connected.” Minglao Zhu formed another technique, thrusting his other hand toward the roots of the tree, sapping away the energy it had squirreled away. If it had any ability to control its own qi, it could easily resist such a cheap trick.
“Ming,” Zhu started, “How did you break through?”
“Uncle instructed me in how to absorb the energy from the spirit beast fish’s flesh. He would have turned in the core, right?”
Zhu’s eyebrows narrowed. “He turned in the core, yes.” The tree continued to wither.
Ming was concerned. “Does it feel?” he asked.
Zhu smirked. “It’s a tree. Techniques are filled with qi. Is the wood from a cultivator’s technique less alive than this trunk?” He let the question hang. “Do you really expect me to believe that you broke through with the meat of a single fish?”
“Uncle gave me half,” Ming replied.
“Half. Right.” Zhu laughed. “Careful who you lie to, child. Not all are as benevolent as I.” The tree’s branches draped across the rich soil now, a putrid liquid running across its trunk. “This is the cycle from which all life emerges, Ming. Remember it.” Ming’s face was scrunched in consternation, but Zhu maintained a steely facade of stoicism.
Zhu held this position for an uncomfortably long time, Ming still not daring to comment. A few minutes later, several black drops of sap coalesced upon the trunk. It was the final plight of a tortured soul, the image of rot itself. Despite his attempt to conceal his emotions, Ming shed a tear. Zhu said nothing, finally releasing his hold on the world’s energy.
The tree, however, did not recover—from what Ming could tell, it was truly dead. Rain fell upon its corpse, inky tears shed upon sickly branches. Ming considered this grisly scene for a while, Zhu having left him to his thoughts.
He turned back to the charred lake beside him, the rain pitter-pattering, the knot in his stomach only growing tighter. “I’m sorry,” he said, bowing deeply to the tree. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. He killed you because of me. It’s all my fault,” he repeated, a deluge of tears running down his face, joining the rain as he pressed his head to the soil.
Ming leaned against the tree, thoughts beginning to drift. “Is this it?” he wondered aloud.
“Why must the strong bully the weak?” he said. His mind raced with anger. I must correct this, he thought, wrapping his arms around the trunk of the tree. He buried his face in the willow bark as thunder sounded in the distance. “I refuse to accept it!”
Thoughts and feelings of deference consumed his mind. You deserve to live, he thought. He kneeled there for an hour, hugging the tree, absorbed in his own obeisance, as, unbeknownst to him, his lifeforce began to slip away. It finally occurred to him that something strange was happening when a sudden agony wracked his bones, but he just held on tighter.
A pearly jade liquid was dripping from his fingertips, suffusing the bark of the tree. It was not qi. No, it was something far more profound. A few seconds later, the tips of his hair had suddenly tinged white, as if painted. Ming redoubled his efforts, that moonlight substance flowing freely from his bones. It’s yours, he thought. Take it. His mind was clear, now, and he had long realized what he was doing, but he had decided. He would correct this wrong, damn the cost.
A fleeting moment of clarity perfused his mind’s eye as his lifeforce continued to slip away.
He saw a million branches, nine thousand fruits, a cacophony of birdsong. He was a hundred different beasts; he lived a thousand lives. He was an insect, laying his eggs under rotting wood. He was a swallow, darting through the nighttime air. He was a pregnant bear, his young slipping from within into the cold of the outside. He was Zhu, wearing an animalistic expression as he slid his spear straight through the skull of an adolescent doe, relishing in the kill. Zhu soon disappeared, and he smelled the scent of fresh chrysanthemums, the casual beauty of glistening dew—worlds danced in his mind as pixies. It had been less than a breath, but he had glimpsed a divine truth. It was too much. Blood ran from his eyes and ears in thick, cerise streams.
“Stop!” a deep voice shouted in his mind. “You’re killing yourself!”
But Ming was unable to reply, immersed in a world-defying vision, each second a decade. His eyes were unspeakably burdened, forced open for millenia without a single moment of reprieve. The profound stretched his mind beyond belief, and it began to give under the pressure; he could feel his faculties going.
“Fine then,” the unidentified voice rumbled. A powerful force slammed into Ming, launching him a few paces away from the tree.
Ming was catatonic, lying there with his silver hair and his bloodied face. But the willow tree reached out a branch and held his hand.
Ming felt a sudden warmth near his navel, his dantian, and he opened his eyes, vision blurred, to find that he was holding onto a knotted branch, though he wasn’t anywhere near the tree itself. It was tepid and smooth. Ming immediately began to practice the absorption technique Guren had taught him, weaving the strands into his own body until, finally, the branch grew cold. He let go, holding his hand to his face to find the image of a perfect willow leaf etched upon his palm.
“You have glimpsed the Grand Dao of Nature.” Ming didn’t dare stand, instead continuing to lay there, hapless, as the voice of the willow spoke into his mind. “Mercy is the luxury of the powerful. You have taken it for yourself.”
“Hello?” Ming asked. A few moments passed like this. The downpour had long subsided, and now only a gentle drizzle fell upon his body. “I suppose,” he said, his words obscured by the breeze. Ming walked back to the willow tree, leaning his back against the soft trunk once more. He had seen much in his Dao vision, and it had only cemented his desire to escape from the cycle. He refused to be an animal, killing on instinct.
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The tree stirred. “The path of cultivation is a long and twisted one, child, but it is only the individual that is responsible for their own corruption.” Ming felt a rumbling from the willow tree as an eruption of white flowers blossomed upon its branches. “There is more. You have seen it.”
Ming didn’t respond, but he had his reservations. Though his glimpse into the Dao had illuminated the beauty of the world, he had also seen that violence was a universal truth. In the end, the world of cultivation was cruel, the path to immortality lined with the dead. Wasn’t it?
Conventional wisdom was adamantly opposed to the ideas of this tree, but Ming considered them all the same.
“I understand, Ming,” the tree said. “You find it hard to believe.”
“I… I want to,” Ming said, his expression contorting with confliction. “I really want to believe it.”
“Then that is enough. Take me with you. I owe you my life. Until today, I have lived a silent life. Watching. Powerless. I want more.”
Ming blinked. “Take you with me?” He wasn’t without his fears. After all, this tree had just been killed by his patriarch. Did it desire to exact revenge?
“I ask as a courtesy, Ming, but the truth is that it would place an unbearable burden on my soul to accept the gift you have given me if I could not at least return the favor. Without me, you will die in perhaps a few months.” Ming shuddered at this revelation. “But I am an ancient tree, Ming. I will recover my power, and in time a human child’s lifeforce will once again be to me as a drop of dye in an endless ocean. It’s no trouble to give you some of that which I have so much of.”
Ming grimaced, eyes downcast. It seemed he had no other choice, but he was still hesitant. What would this entail?
He spoke up. “Thank you. I suppose I must humbly accept your generous gift, then.”
Upon his assent, the tree immediately transformed into a sea of whirling branches, uprooting itself from the ground. It twisted and tumbled in the air until finally it emerged as a snakelike, single branch. It shot toward Ming, and suddenly a thin, braided necklace sat upon his collarbone. Willow leaves spiraled around the wreath, and although it may have appeared soft and comfortable at first glance, it carried an impossible hardness—a sheen of pure wood essence.
“Incredible,” Ming commented. “How’d you learn that one?”
“It just felt natural,” the tree said, and Ming laughed. “You should return home and rest. You must be exhausted.” Ming’s whole body ached, so he agreed with the tree’s assessment. Unfortunately, that would be impossible.
“Recruitment’s today,” Ming said, sighing. “What should I call you, anyway?” he asked as he took his first steps back home.
“Today is my first day with words, nevermind names. Well then…” the tree considered. “How about ‘Hope?’”
“That will do nicely,” Ming said, spirit soaring. “From now on, you will be Hope.”
“One more thing, Ming,” Hope said, “You must progress quickly with your cultivation if you wish to live a full life. I can only give you so much lifeforce before you explode.”
He could explode? Ming came to a stop. “What’s this about me exploding, Hope?” He looked down at the necklace that contained the tree. “Was that a possibility before, then?”
“It was a distinct possibility, yes. Luckily, you are a very strong boy, Ming!” the tree said jubilantly. Clearly, Hope didn’t see a problem with this. “You were able to contain almost thrice as much as I expected before the risk grew too grave to continue.”
Ming sighed in exasperation, though he supposed he couldn’t really blame Hope. He likely would have died without his intervention.
Hope continued, “I will give you more each time you reach a new realm, fortifying your body beyond that of an ordinary practitioner. But, unfortunately, your frail human body was never meant for this sort of exchange. I can only do so much.”
Ming had already noticed the effects of the earlier exchange. His muscles were stronger, his skin tougher, his sight clearer, and even his thoughts felt faster. It made sense that there were some benefits to accepting the lifeforce of a much stronger being, but the prospect of exploding filled him with apprehension.
“How much time do I have to reach Middle Initiate?” Ming inquired, nervous.
“It would be one year until you start to notice the effects. By the end of your second year, your body would surely fail you and you would die. I’m sorry. But, Ming… I was not referring to the realm gradations when I told you it was necessary to advance a realm. You must reach Qi Gathering Adept in two years, and within another two years, Qi Gathering Master. Only at Foundation Initiate will you be reborn, remolded by the Dao as—”
But Ming was too absorbed in his own thoughts to continue listening. He would have to become a Qi Gathering Adept at the age of thirteen for Master Hope to further extend his lifespan. It was completely unheard of. The Patriarch, at nineteen, had reached Middle Initiate and he was an unparalleled genius. Qi Gathering Adept was a theorized stage beyond Initiate—he would have to climb through Middle Initiate, Late Initiate, Peak Initiate, and then somehow transcend Initiate: a feat that no islander had ever managed.
A suffocating weight settled onto Ming’s shoulders. Did he only have two years left to live?
“Ming,” Hope said, sensing his feelings, “It’s alright. You have my guidance. You will make it there in time, I assure you. Besides, you have astounding potential. Perhaps only one in a hundred million can comprehend the mysteries of a Grand Dao. To do so at Qi Gathering Initiate is unthinkable. It’s astounding that your mind did not implode under the pressure.”
Ming was unconvinced. The highest ranking figures in the Enlightened Chrysanthemum sect were of the Late Initiate stage, and only his village patriarch and sect leader had reached the exalted Peak Initiate. Middle Initiate cultivators could crush him with a single strike. At thirteen years old? It was impossible.
“What realm do you believe this humble tree had ascended to, Ming?”
Ming knew that plants and spirit beasts progressed differently than humans, but Hope was not to be underestimated—he was clearly very powerful.
“Could you have reached Late Initiate?” Ming asked, a hint of awe finding its way into his voice.
Hope only laughed. “Ming, I was a Qi Gathering Early Adept before I changed forms. I will mold you into an immortal hero myself if I must.”
An Early Adept? It was the stuff of legends. Each time a cultivator advanced a subrealm, it was said they could take on nine members of their previous realm. So, for example, an Early Initiate could challenge nine Base Initiates, who were essentially regular mortals themselves. By that logic, an Early Adept cultivator could take on an army of… 531, 444 mortals! Though even that was perhaps a rough, unrealistic estimate: Ming doubted that mortals could ever really harm such a powerful cultivator, even if there were over half a million of them. But Ming only burned with more questions.
“You said ‘before I changed forms.’ What are you now?”
“A spirit tool. I sense that I am a Lesser Earthly Sprite. In time I will surely evolve to become an Earthly Sprite, and then eventually a Greater Earthly Sprite. Some day, perhaps, I will become a Lesser Horizon Sprite. It is only natural that I skipped the Common and Mortal realms.”
He struggled to believe Hope had truly been an Early Adept, but their conversation was cut short. He had nearly reached his village, but he had stumbled into an acquaintance of his on the way.
A soft, feminine voice sounded out from one of the trees along the path beside him. “Ming? What happened to your hair? And why aren’t you at the recruitment festival?”