The morning mist clung to the mountainside like a thin veil, soft and pale under the newborn sunlight. The cries of unseen birds echoed through the valley, and the mountain wind carried with it the sharp scent of pine needles and damp stone.
Ming stood in the courtyard, his bare feet pressing against the cool surface of the stone tiles. His long black hair, like a waterfall of shadow, swayed gently with the wind. His blue eyes shimmered faintly in the light of dawn, brighter now than they had ever been.
For the first time, he noticed something strange. The world no longer felt the same.
The chirping of sparrows was not just a faint noise—it was layered, each note crisp and distinct, as though the very air around him carried their wings into his ears. The rustle of pine leaves above was no longer a blur of sound, but a thousand tiny motions of the wind brushing against the needles. Even the distant fall of water striking against rocks rang in his ears like silver bells.
His senses had sharpened.
Ming blinked rapidly, turning his head toward the forest. So clear… so loud… was the world always like this?
At that moment, his teacher approached. The elder's presence was calm and steady, like a mountain that would not move no matter the storm. His robes whispered softly against the earth, carrying the faint fragrance of sandalwood.
"Ming," the teacher said, his deep voice calm, "today, you and I will go down the mountain."
Ming's eyes widened. "Down the mountain?" His voice carried both excitement and nervousness. "Teacher… we have always lived here. Why now?"
The elder studied him quietly for a moment. "Because you have stepped into the Body Tempering Realm. Your body has changed, and so have your senses. Until now, you were like a child listening to the world through a wall. Today, you will listen without barrier. The world beyond the mountain will no longer hide from you."
Ming clenched his hands unconsciously. His heart beat faster—not with fear, but with something else. A pull, a whisper of curiosity that refused to quiet down.
"Teacher," Ming asked suddenly, his voice soft but urgent, "why does the world… feel different now? Why do I hear and see things I never noticed before?"
The elder's eyes softened with the faintest trace of approval. "Because you are no longer the same as you once were. The first level of Body Tempering strengthens the senses—sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. To temper the body is to awaken it. What you feel now is only the beginning. Each step you take will push your limits further."
Ming tilted his head, frowning slightly. "But… if the world is so much bigger and louder than I thought… why could I not feel it before? Was it hidden? Or was I blind?"
The teacher paused. Then, in a low voice, he answered, "Neither. The world was always the same. It was you who could not see."
Ming fell silent. His clever mind spun with thoughts, trying to grasp the meaning. He opened his mouth to ask again, but his teacher raised a hand.
"Do not rush for all the answers, Ming. Some truths must be seen, not told."
The boy nodded reluctantly, though the fire of questions burned brighter in his chest.
By mid-morning, the two figures began their descent down the narrow mountain path. The stones were rough beneath Ming's feet, but his body—strengthened by the first level of Body Tempering—no longer stumbled as easily as before. Each step was steady, his breathing calm.
Yet what truly surprised him was not the path, but the world that unfolded around him.
The forest was alive.
Every leaf seemed painted with a sharper green, every drop of dew sparkled like a tiny jewel. The trunks of the trees stood tall like ancient guardians, their bark rich with patterns Ming had never noticed. The buzzing of insects was no longer just noise—it was a rhythm, a pattern he could follow if he listened closely enough.
Once, a squirrel darted across a branch. Its claws scraped lightly against the wood, and Ming's ears caught even that faint sound. He stared in wonder, his lips parting.
"Teacher," he whispered, "is this… how you see the world? Every day?"
The elder smiled faintly. "In time, perhaps. Right now, what you see is only the first veil lifted. To a true cultivator, the world is endless layers of meaning, sound, and form. When you grow stronger, you will realize even this clarity is shallow."
Ming's heart throbbed with awe. Endless layers… how deep can it go?
For a while, they walked in silence. The mountain breeze swept past them, carrying with it the fragrance of wildflowers. The boy's curiosity, however, refused to stay buried.
"Teacher," he asked again, "why do mortals live below, while we live upon the mountain?"
The elder's gaze remained fixed ahead. "Because mortals see only what is near. They cannot bear the burden of seeing too far. For them, it is enough to eat, work, and sleep. But cultivators must go beyond. If you live among mortals before tempering your heart, you will forget the path."
Ming frowned. "But… are we not also mortals?"
The teacher did not answer immediately. His eyes glinted with something distant, something ancient.
At last, he said, "Yes. We are. But we walk a path mortals cannot. Remember this, Ming—strength does not make you greater than them. It only gives you a heavier burden to carry."
The boy absorbed these words silently. His cleverness forced him to think deeply, even if he could not yet understand fully.
As they descended further, the sound of running water reached Ming's ears. It was a river, flowing at the mountain's base. He could hear not just the water's crash against stone, but the swirling of its currents, the tumbling of pebbles carried along its bed.
He froze, astonished.
"Teacher!" he exclaimed. "I can hear the river's stones! Even though they're under the water!"
His teacher turned to him, eyes calm. "That is the gift of tempering. The body becomes sharper, more awake. But be careful, Ming. The sharper the senses, the easier it is to lose balance. A blade that cuts too well also cuts its wielder."
Ming swallowed, his awe mixing with unease.
At last, the mountain path widened, revealing the valley below. Smoke rose gently from a cluster of rooftops—the village at the foot of the mountain. The sight made Ming stop in his tracks.
He had been there before, many times, to fetch grain or salt. Yet now, it was as though he were seeing it for the first time.
Children ran along the dirt roads, their laughter ringing like chimes. Farmers guided oxen through the fields, their movements heavy yet steady. Women carried baskets of fruit, chatting softly, their voices rising and falling like waves.
The smell of baked bread drifted to him, sharp and warm. The sound of chopping wood echoed faintly from somewhere farther in the village. Even the distant cry of a baby reached his ears, small yet clear.
Ming's chest tightened. He whispered, almost to himself, "Everything feels… closer. Like I've always known them. Like they are… family."
His teacher glanced at him with quiet eyes.
"That," the elder said softly, "is the heart of cultivation. To see the world not as stranger, but as kin. Remember this feeling, Ming. Never lose it."
Ming's blue eyes shone with something indescribable. He didn't fully understand, but he knew this moment was important.
And so, for the first time in his life, he stepped down from the mountain—not as a boy fetching food, but as a cultivator walking into the world.
> As dawn painted the horizon, Ming tightened the cloth around his pack and took his first step beyond the courtyard gates. The mountain path stretched before him—vast, uncertain, and filled with shadows he could not yet name. But with each stride, his resolve sharpened: this was no longer just his master's world, but his own path to carve.