The dirt road welcomed them with dust rising beneath their feet. To Ming, even the smallest detail seemed alive—the crunch of gravel, the warmth of the sun as it touched his skin, the cool shadows that clung beneath the trees lining the road. He breathed deeply, and the scent of earth and smoke mingled in his chest like a memory he never knew he carried.
The village was not large. From afar, it was nothing more than a cluster of wooden roofs and narrow paths. But as Ming drew closer, every piece of it unfolded with new clarity.
Chickens clucked in the yards, their wings stirring up tiny gusts of dust. Farmers called out to one another, voices rough yet filled with familiarity. Children's laughter bounced across the air, free of weight, striking Ming's ears like bells.
He slowed his steps, his blue eyes wide, drinking in the sight.
"Teacher," Ming whispered, "was it always like this? So full of sound, so full of life? I feel… as if I know them, though I do not."
The old man looked at him, gaze calm as water. "That is because your heart is open, Ming. When you were blind, the world was distant. Now that you see, you realize—these people were never far from you."
Ming thought silently. Each passing face seemed familiar, as though they were kin he had long forgotten. A woman carrying a basket of apples met his eyes and smiled without hesitation, as though greeting an old friend. Ming bowed back politely, a spark of warmth lighting within him.
They entered the heart of the village. Smoke rose from clay ovens, carrying the sharp scent of freshly baked bread. Dogs barked lazily, tails wagging as strangers passed by. The clinking of metal echoed from a blacksmith's hut, each strike of hammer on iron ringing like thunder in Ming's sharpened ears.
The boy paused, staring. The sound was loud, yet it was not painful—it was rhythmic, steady, like a heartbeat of the earth itself.
"Teacher," he asked softly, "is this why mortals work every day? To follow this rhythm?"
The elder's lips curved faintly. "Mortals do not think of rhythm, Ming. They think only of survival. Yet survival itself is a rhythm, one you have begun to hear."
Ming lowered his gaze, thoughtful. Everyone walks their own path, he realized. The farmer follows the path of earth, the blacksmith follows the path of fire and iron… even if they do not know it themselves.
The thought tightened in his chest, leaving behind both awe and sorrow.
Children ran up to him suddenly, their curious eyes wide. "Big brother! Your hair is so long!" one exclaimed, reaching up but pulling back shyly. Another tugged at Ming's sleeve. "Are you from the mountain? Do you know magic?"
Ming blinked, caught off guard. Their innocent voices rang clear, brighter than any bell. For a moment, he forgot the right words.
Before he could speak, his teacher chuckled lightly, his deep voice gentle. "This child is Ming. He trains upon the mountain, but he is no magician. He is still learning."
The children giggled and scattered, chasing after one another. Their laughter trailed behind them like threads of light.
Ming stood frozen, a small smile tugging at his lips. Why… do they feel like brothers and sisters I've always known?
By midday, the elder stopped at a small tea house. They sat beneath the shade of a wooden awning, the air fragrant with roasted leaves. The innkeeper brought them steaming cups, bowing respectfully to the teacher.
Ming lifted his cup carefully. The tea's warmth seeped into his hands, and when he sipped, his sharpened senses exploded with flavor. Bitterness, warmth, a faint sweetness hidden deep—it was more than taste; it was a story unfolding on his tongue.
His eyes widened. "Teacher… it's only tea, but… it feels alive."
The old man chuckled softly. "To the dull, tea is only hot water. To the awake, even a single leaf contains a thousand meanings. This is why I said—your journey has only begun."
Ming lowered his gaze, thinking again. His cleverness refused to sleep. If mortals live every day surrounded by this beauty, why do they not see it? Or… is it because they do not need to?
"Teacher," he asked suddenly, "if everyone has their own path… then is it wrong that mortals do not seek cultivation?"
The elder's eyes grew distant, as though gazing into time itself. "Ming, paths are not higher or lower. The farmer who grows rice feeds ten thousand mouths. The cultivator who grows stronger may save a hundred lives—or destroy them. Do you see? The worth of a path lies not in strength, but in how one walks it."
Ming's chest trembled. He understood only half, but the words burned into him, deep and unforgettable.
When they left the tea house, the sun was already tilting westward. They walked past the river at the village's edge. Its waters glistened under the light, rippling endlessly. Ming stopped, listening. He could hear not only the water's surface but its hidden depths—the tumble of pebbles, the stirring of weeds beneath.
His reflection stared back at him from the surface: blue eyes like clear sky, black hair like a river of night. For a moment, he felt both strange and familiar to himself.
"Teacher," he asked softly, "if I can hear this river now… what will I hear when I am stronger?"
The old man placed a hand on his shoulder, firm yet gentle. "When you are stronger, Ming, you may hear not just rivers—but the voice of the heavens, the cry of the earth, even the whispers between stars. But remember: hearing is not understanding. Do not mistake one for the other."
Ming closed his eyes. The river's song filled him, endless, flowing without rest. Everyone has their own path… and mine… mine is to question.
As evening fell, the two returned to the foot of the mountain. The village slowly dimmed behind them, its smoke and laughter fading into the dusk. Ming turned his head one last time, his heart heavy yet full.
The elder watched him silently.
"Teacher," Ming said, his voice quiet but firm, "the world feels so vast, yet so close. I want to understand it. Not just with eyes or ears, but here." He touched his chest lightly.
The teacher's gaze softened, and for the briefest moment, pride flickered in his ancient eyes. "Then remember this day, Ming. Remember the sound of the river, the warmth of the tea, the laughter of children. One day, when your path grows dark, these memories will guide you back."
Ming bowed his head deeply. The weight of the moment pressed upon him, yet it was not heavy—it was steady, like the mountain beneath his feet.
As night's veil covered the sky, stars emerged above, scattered like fragments of eternity. Ming looked up, his blue eyes reflecting their light.
Everyone has their own path… but I will not just walk mine. I will seek to know why paths exist at all.
And with that thought, his first true step into the world was complete.
> Watching the fading figures of the villagers, Ming lowered his gaze and whispered to himself, "Their path is theirs… mine is mine." The words steadied him. Though the road ahead was lonely and uncertain, it belonged solely to him—and that truth gave him strength.