New yellow proclamations were pasted across every lane of Muyun Town.
"By order of Cixia Prefecture: post-disaster relief for Sanghe Village commences today.
New settlers will receive three measures of grain per month, one house, and five years' corvée exemption.
All infected have been quarantined; the plague will not spread. Townsfolk, do not panic."
The brushwork was firm and balanced, signed: "Under Cixia Dao · Muyun Town Office."
Qingshui stood at a street corner, slurping a sugar figurine, watching passersby nod and chatter at the notice.
"Good—maybe things really are calming down."
"…They say ten of every one household in Sanghe are gone. The earth out there's split to pieces."
"And that quarantine camp outside town—full of plague-touched, they'd better never let them out!"
"What else can they do—burn the lot? Let 'em die out there and stop bothering the rest of us, I say!"
Qingshui clicked her tongue and bit the candy in half.
"Easy to talk when the fire's not at your door."
She glanced toward a vegetable stall: Bihua was picking greens; beside her, Layne shouldered a little basket, sniffing scallions and ginger like his mother.
Quiet. Steady. At a glance, an ordinary local family.
Except for the boy… Qingshui drew her gaze back, a ripple in her eyes.
He was different.
Yesterday, when she gathered qi in her palm to feint, the kid slipped left a heartbeat early—as if he'd seen the flow of her Xuanqi.
"The boy's feeling for Xuanqi is getting sharper," she thought, lips quirking.
"First sense of qi, hm? Kid, you're a fine seedling."
"Which means, once someone notices you… they might rip you up, roots and all—and level the ground around you."
—
That afternoon, thin clouds shaded the courtyard and a light breeze moved.
Bihua went to hang laundry out back. Qingshui braced one foot on a stool and slapped the table. "Class time—Layne, front and center!"
Layne wiped his hands and sat properly, a little thrill still in his eyes.
"Something new today," Qingshui drawled around a grass stem, lounging in a bamboo chair. "A secret—one even your mother doesn't know."
Bihua's hands slowed over the wash; curiosity pricked despite herself.
Catching the feigned indifference, Qingshui chuckled and continued, voice turning even.
"There's another possibility inside you—another path you could take."
She straightened, tapping the tabletop.
"Do you know that all martial skill—fists, weapons, techniques—boils down to two kinds?"
"Strength of the body. Strength of the qi."
Layne shook his head, eyes wide.
"Bodily strength is muscle, bone, sight, reflex. You dodged my strikes because you're quick and you read my physical tells."
"But—" Her gaze and palm tightened.
An unseen pressure pulsed from her hand. The air seemed to stir; leaves by the table trembled.
"This is the strength of qi."
Layne blinked. "Did… did you just attack?"
"You can't quite feel it yet," she smiled. "But you're already brushing against it."
"Yesterday, when you pre-dodged my right palm—did you think you'd read my arm?"
She shook her head.
"You sensed the instant my inner qi-channels shifted, and so the direction of power to come. Like incense lit in a room—you can't see it from the door, but you smell it."
Layne stared, half understanding.
"Xuanqi," Qingshui said at last, voice firm. "Heaven has its skein, earth its veins; the human body is a world unto itself, with qi-paths through limbs and bones. One who can sense qi is said to have 'first sense.'"
"One who can draw qi into the body 'opens the channels.'"
"One who can command qi to act is a cultivator."
"Others move along a different path—using Xuanqi to reinforce the body, or to sheath fists, blades, armor. That's another school."
She rattled on, whether he kept up or not, then sprawled back again, unhurried.
"But training flesh and qi isn't as mystical as you think."
"And sensing it once doesn't make you a prodigy. Plenty catch a first whiff yet lack a method—or the gift—and vanish into the crowd."
She slanted him a look. "You might have some talent. Don't let it go to your head."
By now Bihua had stopped moving entirely, staring as if meeting Qingshui for the first time. Layne's jaw had gone slack.
—
Night deepened; the courtyard stilled. Qingshui turned in early. From the main room came the soft rustle of papers and the abacus' click.
By lamplight, Bihua's long fingers rolled the beads, tallying:
"Three more months' rent due. Oil, rice, firewood—five strings a month. The shop's tab…"
"…Qingshui's greedy mouth, plus tuition, ink and paper, small daily bites… Layne's pocket money—and Qingshui wants some too…"
The beads stopped with a sharp clack.
She eyed the final sum—one tael three maces, nine candareens, forty-two cash.
"This won't do."
She sighed, not panicked, set the brush down, and closed the ledger.
Under the tree, the yard lay amber-dim; a soft glow seeped from Layne's room. He was still awake—lit by the spark those two syllables Xuan-qi had struck inside him.
If one day we part from Qingshui—who will teach him then?
If people in this town start to move—how do I shield this corner of the world he just glimpsed?
She stepped outside. The moon was bright and cold.
"Maybe I need to think ahead," she murmured. "Not just about coin—but what storms might come."
Her gaze slid toward Qingshui's room.
Inside, Qingshui rolled over and exhaled.
—
On the western ridge beyond town, a dark rise lay silent.
A black-clad scout crouched at the treeline, squinting toward Muyun's lights. He wrote a new line:
"Shui-Li remains routine. The boy, however, advances too quickly—reactions sharp, yet his bones aren't those of a natural prodigy."
He sealed the strip, slipped it up his sleeve, and ghosted away.
A hundred li off, in the lord's hall of Qingzhou, Xuanhu sat in meditation. Above his head floated a silver-white cuirass; threads of red light pulsed from the crimson gem at its breast into his body.
The gem flickered like a heartbeat. Xuanhu's brow knotted; pain crept across his face. The red filaments between armor and flesh trembled—then snapped.
He rose, chest heaving, glaring at the hovering armor. The gem's hue had dimmed a shade, yet crimson still flowed within.
"What is this thing? Not Xuanqi—more violent. It refuses to harmonize with drawn qi…"
He muttered, producing a worn booklet.
The signature at the end was that of—
the Minister of Documents of the Six Ministries, a secret memorandum.