Morning light broke as the rain ceased. At the shrine's ruins, the deep pit no longer bled, but the earth was still clammy and reeked of iron.
Xuanhu stood at the rim, cloak trailing in mud. The rain had rinsed some blood from him, but the stench clung as he stared down at the pit of corpses.
Beyond, soldiers had laid out what bodies they could recognize—hundreds, lined in rows. From the village they had fetched bedding and mats, the dead's only dignity.
No names, no whole forms. Some missing arms, some beheaded, some sliced into ribbons below the chest. Still, each fragment was carefully placed.
A gust lifted one mat's edge.
Xuanhu bent, pressed it down, silent.
"Lord." His deputy came quickly, voice low. "From Lìzhou—someone seeks audience. The City Lord asks you to come."
Xuanhu did not answer at once. His eyes lingered on the pit. Soldiers below worked through gore, gagging as they searched for anything that might identify the lost.
"Who was this pit meant for?" he thought. "If even I can sense its purpose… there are many stronger than me."
Or was this a message—a warning?
"Lìzhou's City Lord?" He muttered, frown tightening. "That viper. I hadn't gone to him—yet he calls on me first."
He flicked mud from his cloak. "Where's my horse?"
The deputy brought it. Mounting, Xuanhu rode past heaps of corpses to the gate, where the messenger waited—head bowed, face hidden. Only the sway of his qi and the serpent token at his belt marked him as Lìzhou's trusted man.
"Let's go." Xuanhu urged forward. Behind him, his deputy rallied the troop.
—
By now the sun had crept up the trees.
In the courtyard, the tiles dried from last night's rain, save damp patches under the eaves where puddles mirrored clouds.
Bi Hua set a pot of fish soup on the table, wiping her hands. "Layne, Qingshui, time to eat!"
"Coming!" Layne's head poked from Qingshui's window, flushed from practice.
Qingshui ambled out, stretching, grumbling: "I only just taught you, and you train till you nearly faint."
"You talk so fast—who could follow!" Layne pouted. "And wipe the crumbs off your mouth—always stealing my snacks…"
"You're slow. Can't I eat more to heal faster?" She swiped her mouth, shameless.
"You don't act like a grown-up. I won't be like you."
"Right, right, don't copy me." She stepped over a bench and dropped at the table. "But you'd better keep training. Only with strength can you choose the adult you'll become."
Lunch was simple: rice, fish soup, stir-fried greens with meat, and leftover pickles.
Qingshui ate slowly but steadily, eyes darting to Bi Hua and Layne as their chopsticks reached the pot.
"Here." With a sigh, Layne handed her a piece of fish.
"Tch. Such filial piety." She grinned, biting in. "Tomorrow I swear I won't steal your snacks."
"You always say that…" he muttered, earning a glare.
Bi Hua propped her chin on her hand, watching their banter with quiet warmth.
—
Afterward, sunlight grew bright.
Qingshui spread an old mat beneath the tree. "Sit. Today, the real 'Guiding Qi.'"
"What about before?" Layne blinked.
"That was knowing what qi is. Today—you learn to seize it."
She crossed her legs, face turning serious. A finger traced a circle in the air.
"Remember—this is the threshold. Once you guide qi within, you're barely a cultivator."
"You said my sense is already good?"
"Sense is not grasp. A dog may smell keen, but if it's legless, can the scent come to it?"
"…Right."
Layne set palms on his knees, eyes shut.
Sunlight dappled his skin. Warmth seeped into his hands. For the first time, he tried to "chase" the colors of qi, to feel the currents and draw them in.
Qingshui watched, eyes intent. She felt it—the flow sliding through his palms, into his chest.
"Good," she whispered. "That's it."
"This… is the first lesson of a cultivator."
From the doorway, Bi Hua set down a basin of laundry, rolled sleeves, and began scrubbing. But her eyes lingered on the boy under the tree, and on the woman before him.
Qingshui's lips moved with quiet words, gaze full of pride and expectation. For once, she looked neither gluttonous child, nor hardened fighter, nor wounded patient—she looked like a teacher.
"Between me and Qingshui, who seems older?" Bi Hua's shadows thinned as stray thoughts drifted. "It looks more like I am…"
"Layne," Qingshui asked, "where does qi come from?"
He opened his eyes, puzzled. "Didn't you say from the Heartsea?"
"That's inner qi. I mean—the qi you draw from heaven and earth. Where does it come from?"
Layne looked at his palms, still warm from practice. He shook his head. "I don't know. Isn't it… just there?"
Qingshui smiled faintly, ruffling his hair. His head was hot, prickling her hand.
"If it were always there, why isn't everyone a cultivator?"
He froze. True—until Qingshui, he'd never heard of such power, except in storytellers' tales. Yet it was real.
She pulled back, her voice firm.
"Qi rises from the heart. From what you cling to, the dreams you seek, the ones you want to protect, the things unfinished. That is intent."
"Just a spark, a cause, a small flame—enough to stir the Heartsea, and to feel heaven and earth anew."
Layne stared, lost, her words fading into blur. He remembered the lantern he had set afloat at the Runling Festival—and the vow he had whispered, not written:
I want to become an adult worthy of being entrusted with others' hopes.