The tavern blazed with warmth and noise, lanterns glowing against dusk's encroaching dark. Orman, the Seventh King, had insisted that Kiaria's acknowledgment could not pass without celebration. Long tables sagged under roasted meats, fruit wines, and steaming bowls of fragrant herbs. The Seven Kings were present, the Princess too, their presence drawing reverent bows even from the tavern keeper himself.
But Orman was nothing like his lofty title suggested. Brown-haired, blue-eyed, his laughter rolled louder than any drum. He dragged Kiaria to the head of the table, seating him between himself and the Princess.
"Little brother," Orman announced, raising a clay cup of wine high. "You may be quiet, you may not even know how to use chopsticks properly yet, but today you belong to us. If you don't eat till you burst, you're insulting me personally!"
Laughter burst along the table. Kiaria flushed, murmuring something soft.
The Princess tilted her head, her voice like flowing jade. "Seventh Brother, don't bully him. He's just a child."
"A child who faced the vault and came out alive," Orman shot back, grinning wide. "Do you know how many Kings almost had their bones rattled loose in there? He's more man than half of us already."
The older Kings smiled faintly, though their pride weighed heavier than Orman's teasing air. For them, Kiaria's presence was strange – an infant among giants, yet chosen by fate itself. Still, none dared to belittle what the vault had proven.
Throughout the night Orman told exaggerated stories of battles he barely remembered, slamming the table, waving his cup, mimicking sword swings so wildly that wine splashed into the Princess's lap. She laughed despite herself. Kiaria sat quietly, but every so often a small smile crept onto his lips.
By the time the meal wound down, Orman looped an arm around his shoulders. "Come, little brother. Enough feasting. Tonight, you'll see where real cultivation begins."
The Enlightenment Sect
The mountain rose from the horizon like a sleeping titan, its ridges veiled in mist. Rivers sprang from its cliffs, waterfalls crashing into valleys that glittered like molten silver beneath the moonlight. Forests lay dense and untamed, home to beasts whose eyes gleamed faintly in the dark. The mountain was untouched by mortal hand; its air hummed with spiritual essence so rich that each breath cleansed the lungs.
This was the Enlightenment Sect.
At its base, disciples bowed as Orman and Kiaria passed, that was arranged by Sect Leader. At its heart, wooden huts rose simply from the earth, thatched roofs blending seamlessly into the forest canopy. No towers of gold, no jeweled palaces. The sect's wealth was wisdom, and its splendor was silence.
Every step forward deepened the sense of order. Markets buzzed with barter – herbs for cloth, tools for rice – yet there was no greed. Children darted between legs, laughter echoing. The poor wore plain garments, but their faces glowed with peace.
Kiaria stopped, staring. "Why are they… so happy?" His voice was low, genuine.
Orman glanced at him, smiling as if the question pleased him. "Little brother, you'll find the answer when you stop asking. Here, happiness doesn't come from what we own, but what we release." He ruffled Kiaria's hair, laughing when the boy scowled softly. "Don't worry. Didhian will explain it in ways far less confusing than me."
The path climbed higher, narrowing into trails. At last, Orman brought him to a secluded clearing deep in the forest. A single hut stood there, wooden walls bound with reeds, roof layered with long grasses. Moonlight fell across it like blessing.
"This," Orman said, spreading his arms grandly, "is your residence. Notice how it's far from everyone else? That's not punishment. It's honor. Only our Founder, Master Didhian, once lived in seclusion like this. And now… so will you."
Kiaria nodded quietly. He did not mind the solitude. Somehow, the silence of the clearing fit him.
Morning broke with birdsong. Kiaria followed Orman to the Sect Hall, where Didhian awaited.
The Founder sat upon a plain cushion, robes unadorned, face calm. His hood was gone, revealing a man whose features seemed carved by wind and stone. His gaze was not heavy, but piercing – as though it looked past the flesh into what lay unspoken.
"Sit," Didhian said.
Kiaria obeyed.
The hall fell into silence. For long breaths, the Founder said nothing. Then, his voice came – slow, measured, like chiseling each word into stone.
"Why do you want to cultivate?"
Kiaria blinked.
"What is the purpose of your life?" Didhian pressed. "Are you chosen by chance, or by law? If chosen… then why you?"
The questions struck like blows. Kiaria's lips moved, but no words came. He had fought demons, wielded swords, survived storms – yet faced with this, he was silent.
Didhian's eyes softened, but his tone remained stern. "Do not rush. These questions are rivers. Carry them. When you drink their answer, return to me. Until then, walk as one who knows he does not know."
"Yes, Master," Kiaria whispered.
"Go. From today, you are in seclusion for one year. Each month, you will come out only once – to read in the pavilion and to attend martial exchanges with your seniors. The rest of your days belong to silence and the mountain. That is the path you now walk."
In seclusion, the waterfall became his companion. Day after day, Kiaria sat upon the stone at its center, breath steady beneath the crashing roar. At first there was nothing but noise and wetness. Then came stillness. Then came sensation.
Three days passed before he felt the essence of nature moving – a current subtle as breath, threading through forest and stream alike.
By the fourth day, his senses sharpened. He could hear the flap of wings a mile away, see the trembling of a leaf before it fell.
He shaped a droplet of water into an icy needle. With eyes closed, he hurled it into the air. It pierced a rebounded droplet mid-flight. Small, but perfect. He smiled faintly, not at success, but at understanding.
Night after night, he continued. His aura grew steady, his body cleansed by the gentle flow. Unlike the other disciples who sought distraction, Kiaria remained silent, his days consumed by stillness.
The sect whispered.
"He is like the Founder."
"He cultivates in silence… but draws power faster than we can measure."
"Perhaps he carries our hope."
Kiaria knew nothing of their hopes. He cultivated not for them, but for something nameless within himself.
Orman's Laughter
Once each month, Orman dragged him out of seclusion. "You'll rot if you sit in silence forever!" he declared, laughing as he threw an arm around Kiaria's shoulders.
Together they visited the pavilion, where disciples read scrolls and debated philosophy. Orman teased them relentlessly, twisting proverbs into jokes, mocking their solemn faces until even the sternest elders hid smiles.
At night, he told Kiaria stories – battles exaggerated to absurdity, jokes about their seniors, memories of when even he had once been a child frightened of shadows.
"You see, little brother," Orman said once, holding his cup of wine high, "wisdom without laughter is like rice without water – dry and choking. Learn to laugh, even when you cultivate. Otherwise, one day you'll wake up old and angry like the Second King."
Kiaria laughed softly for the first time in weeks.
Seasons turned. Snow crowned the mountains, melted, returned again. A year passed in seclusion.
Kiaria emerged stronger, sharper, calmer. Yet the questions Didhian had given him still lingered, unanswered, carried like stones in his chest.
The day came when Orman burst into his clearing, panting, hair a mess. "Little brother! You're late!"
"For what?" Kiaria asked calmly.
"The Martial Exchange Event!" Orman grabbed his wrist, hauling him up. "Even our elders are showing off what they learned this year. If you don't come, you'll shame me in front of everyone!"
Kiaria allowed himself to be pulled along, silence against Orman's noisy excitement. Yet in his eyes, something flickered – curiosity, and perhaps, the first taste of anticipation.