Chapter 17 – At Seven Years Old, I Asked Questions
I was seven years old when the old man finally admitted something important.
He was chewing on something crunchy I don't know what it was and he looked at me intently,
"You know, for a child your age, you're remarkably unsettling," he said.
I didn't lift my head from the pattern I was drawing.
"Should I apologize?"
He let out a loud sigh.
"No. You should be boisterous, or arrogant, or at least loud. You're none of those things."
"That sounds like a compliment," I said.
"It's a warning," he replied.
I finished drawing the last line of the pattern and gently pressed my palm against it. The pattern held without resistance. Cleanly. Firmly.
The old man stared.
"See? That's it. That's what I'm talking about."
Later that afternoon, I walked into the sea.
Not cautiously.
Not hesitantly.
I simply walked.
The waves parted around my feet as if they recognized me. The salt didn't sting. There was no pressure. Even when I was fully submerged, the water felt like an extension of my breath.
When I surfaced, the old man was standing on a rock with his arms crossed.
"You know," he said, "most achievers would give their lives for this."
"For what?" I asked.
He gestured vaguely towards the sea.
"To be untouched."
I tilted my head.
"I'm not untouched. I'm accepted."
He smiled softly. "It's even worse."
That night, I sat quietly and looked inward.
The Mist Mother was already there.
"You are comfortable now," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I answered honestly.
"Good," she said. "Comfort shows that your foundation is solid."
"I've become skilled at drawing mandalas(Arrays)," I said. "Not quickly. But precisely."
"That's why you are skilled," she replied. "Speed is born of fear."
I hesitated, then asked,
"Why mandalas(Arrays) for me?"
She paused, and darkness slowly gathered around the thought.
"Because mandalas(Arrays) keep you grounded in the present," she said. "They punish wandering minds. They reward clarity. For someone like you, that discipline is survival."
It made sense.
"Mist Mother," I asked, "am I strong?"
She answered without hesitation.
"No."
I blinked.
"Oh!."
"But you are resilient," she continued. "That is far rarer."
When I was fully conscious again, the Mother Tree spoke.
You are learning to listen, it said kindly.
"I still don't like medicine," I replied.
You don't have to like it, it responded. You have to respect it.
"I do respect it," I insisted. "I study the procedures. I follow the measurements. I don't experiment recklessly."
And yet you complain, Mother tree said playfully.
I sighed. "It's slow." Healing is like that too, it replied softly.
Mother Tree guided me without words. When I touched a plant, understanding bloomed instantly, its nature, its character, its limitations.
"You are very powerful," I said softly.
Power is unimportant, Mother Tree replied. I am continuity.
It silenced me.
The next day, the old man finally sat me down properly.
"Alright," he said, stroking his beard. "You are seven years old. That's the age when ignorance becomes dangerous."
I frowned.
"Is that an insult?"
"No," he said. "It's an education."
He drew a rough diagram on the ground.
"The stages of training," he began. "This world likes titles."
I leaned in closer.
"First, the foundation. Everyone starts there."
"Second, refinement. A strong body, a clear soul."
"Then core formation that's where people mistakenly begin to think of themselves as important."
I raised an eyebrow.
He smiled.
"Wasn't I right?"
"What comes after that?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"After that... training ceases to be personal," he said. "Soul ascension, domain lords, things like that. Once you reach those levels, people stop asking what you can do and start asking what you control."
"What stage am I at?" I asked.
He looked at me intently.
"You don't fit into any category."
"It didn't fit."
That answer didn't bother me at all. Then, the warriors offered their tributes again.
Food. Coins. Small spiritual stones.
I asked the old man,
"Why are they doing this?"
"Because you don't ask for anything," he replied. "People trust silence more than promises."
Through meditation, I learned to properly accept their offerings not as fuel, but as a bond. Using lines of magic, I slowly infused the spirit (Water Serpent) of the clan into them. Focus. Stability. Certainty.
No commands.
No ownership.
Only balance.
"That's dangerous," the old man said, watching. "You're creating loyalty without authority."
"I'm not trying to do that," I replied.
He smiled.
"Precisely."
That evening, I returned to the sea.
I submerged myself beneath the surface of the water, my eyes open.
Nothing resisted me.
No gray world.
No decay.
Only depth.
When I surfaced, the old man nodded.
"Alright," he said. "I concede."
"Concede what?" I asked.
"That you are invincible here."
I shrugged.
"I don't feel invincible."
"That's why you are," he replied.
I looked at the horizon, where the waves rolled endlessly.
"I don't want politics," I said softly.
"Good," he replied. "Neither does the training." I closed my eyes and allowed the sea to carry me.
Seven years old.
Skilled in magic spells or mandalas.
Steady in medicine.
Untouched by the sea.
Still growing.
That was enough.
For now.