The room was empty of sun, yet warmth lingered—carried by coal embers and the ritualized motion of Li Hua's hands. I knelt in seiza, fingers brushing the tatami as though the slightest movement might unravel the day. Forty mornings had passed this way. Forty lifetimes, compressed into a single breath. Each day identical—yet each sharpened how I noticed the room, the steam, the faint mingling of coal and tea.
She poured water over the embers. Steam hissed softly, punctuating the silence. I watched without blinking. I did not speak. Even a question, if imprecise, could warp perception. Tea was a monologue, a conversation, a mirror—or simply a measure of stillness.
"Water," she asked, eyes closed.
I had rehearsed the answer. "Odorless, colorless, tasteless—safe to drink."
She sipped, lips barely moving. "And yet…" Her voice threaded the air. "It is not the water you know, but its pattern. Its history. Its expectation. To see truly, you must let go."
The tattoo on my wrist itched—a reminder that my flesh bore more than ink.
"You must learn control," she continued. "You cannot see the power in yourself if body and mind refuse alignment."
Forty days of tea. Of silence. Of questions layered atop one another. And still she returned to the same inquiry: Who are you?
The first week was observation. I scarcely saw Heiwa, whose lessons followed a different current. I watched steam rise and distort, heat bending above coal, shadows shifting with the room's breath. I learned to notice what moved without motion. Even my breathing became a thread woven into the space.
In the second week, Li Hua introduced definition.
"What is tea?"
I recited origins, temperature, flavor. She shook her head.
"No. Tea is not an object. It is intention, distilled. It fills a vessel because it must—not because it exists. Do you see the difference?"
I began to notice faint bends in the air. Intention resonated in a cup. Shadows thickened near my fingertips; light hesitated before touching leaves. Steam traced restrained shapes—suggestive, deliberate—and my eyes followed them like an unfamiliar script.
Weeks three and four blurred perception with manipulation. Flowers bloomed where color had been absent. A cup hovered briefly before settling into my hand. Each action demanded precision. One fractured thought and the illusion trembled.
It was not magic.
It was philosophy, made visible.
I could hear intention behind motion—the patience softening gravity, the air shifting with Li Hua's breath.
By the fifth week, she taught me to frame reality itself. Depth collapsed. Planes flattened. Slight desaturation suggested curvature where none existed. Perception did not create reality—it selected which version could be inhabited.
Hours passed as I held a cup hovering above the table, adjusting pressure, attention, expectation. My eyes burned. My shoulders ached. The cup did not fall.
"Why do you call me the Pale Duchess?" I asked one morning.
Li Hua tilted her head, eyes still closed.
"Who else could bear that name? Titles are not given. They are reflected. Look at yourself, and tell me whether the reflection lies."
Days passed like the sun in slow procession. I learned to see energy as threads, to manipulate without touching. Small motions became everything. Each failure taught the same lesson: power does not obey. It only manifests what you understand.
Precision. Clarity. Patience.
Intent was the river.
Contracts were not commands—they were echoes. Clauses refracted the shape of the mind that formed them. Bend them, and they bit back. Act with clarity, and they complied. Power answered nothing but the geometry of thought.
To name myself the Pale Duchess was no vanity. It was recognition. A resonance. A responsibility.
In the final days, I performed quiet tests—curling mist above tea, bending shadow to suggest depth. Li Hua observed in silence, occasionally sipping, occasionally smiling. The room breathed with us.
"You are prepared," she said on the forty-first morning. "Not because you can move the world—but because you can remain unmoved within it. The power you wield will do nothing beyond what you comprehend. It waits."
I held the cup between my palms—heat, weight, intention aligned.
"And now?" I asked.
She smiled. "Now, you live. You act. You observe without clinging. You know the river; you flow with it. But the banks are older than anything you will summon. Respect them. Beyond them lies horror you are not ready to meet."
Forty days of tea ended without ceremony.
I exhaled, sensing the subtle shift in the air—a zone folded around me, not imposed but allowed. The world waited, indifferent, yet intimately perceptive. And for the first time, I understood: I was not a sorcerer. I was a maverick.