Han Li opened the door.
Morning light washed over him, clean and pale, as if the world itself had been washed and laid out fresh for his departure. Before him, the village had gathered once more—a sea of faces held in a collective, breathless silence. Children peeked from behind weathered legs, elders leaned on staffs with eyes that had seen generations pass, mothers clutched infants, and young men and women watched with expressions tangled between awe, envy, and a dawning sense that history was being made on their humble ground.
At the front of the crowd stood the same timeless figure—Physician Lu, his grey robes smooth as still water, his posture relaxed yet radiating an authority that needed no announcement. His eyes, cool and discerning, found Han Li's immediately and held them—a silent command, and a promise.
Han Li turned back into the dimness of the house. His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Master has come."
His parents emerged from the shadows, stepping into the light as if crossing a threshold between worlds. They moved slowly, their steps weighted with a lifetime of love and the gravity of this moment. They approached Physician Lu and bowed deeply, their forms expressing a respect that went beyond courtesy—it was gratitude, and release.
Physician Lu inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment that felt both imperial and kind. "Han Li, my good disciple," he said, his voice clear and resonant, carrying to the furthest edges of the crowd without strain. "The road ahead is long, and the hours of morning are precious. We should leave early."
"Yes, Master."
Now came the moment Han Li had braced for—the last embrace. He turned to his parents. His mother's eyes were liquid, but she held the tears at the brink with a mother's fierce will, her lips pressed into a thin, brave line that trembled only slightly. His father stood tall, shoulders squared as if bearing up under an invisible weight, but his hands, rough and broad from labor, trembled at his sides.
"Mother," Han Li whispered, stepping into her arms.
She wrapped herself around him, holding him so tightly he could feel the beat of her heart against his own. Her body shook with a silent, shuddering sob she refused to let become sound. "Be well, my Li'er," she murmured into his ear, her voice thick with a love that ached. "Eat properly. Rest when you can. Listen to your master—truly listen. Learn… learn everything."
"I will," he promised, the words a vow whispered into her shoulder.
He turned to his father. The man's weathered face was a map of sun and sorrow, pride and pain etched into every deep line. He placed his calloused hands on Han Li's shoulders, his grip firm, grounding. "Make us proud," he said, the words rough but sure, carved from a place beyond eloquence. "But more than that… make yourself proud. Your path is your own now. Walk it with your head up and your heart steady."
Behind them, the village watched in a silence that was its own kind of tribute. Old Zhong, the village head, stepped forward, his hands folded formally into the sleeves of his best robe. His voice, aged but steady as an old tree, carried a formal weight.
"The Han family is blessed today," he announced, his gaze sweeping over the villagers before settling on Han Li. "Remember this village, Han Li. Remember the soil you walked on, the sky you dreamed under. Wherever your path leads, you carry a piece of Lingshui in your spirit. Let it ground you. Let it remind you where you began."
A murmur of agreement, soft as rustling leaves, rippled through the crowd. Granny Wen, who had often slipped him an extra steamed bun when hunger pinched hardest, dabbed her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. "Good boy," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You have a gentle heart. Don't let the world harden it."
The moment stretched, thick with unspoken love, collective hope, and the sweet, piercing ache of parting. Han Li memorized their faces—the landscape of his childhood, now frozen in this final tableau. Five hundred words could not hold all that passed between them in that charged silence, but the very air seemed to vibrate with it, a resonance of endings and beginnings.
Then, Physician Lu's voice cut gently through the stillness, a clean note in the emotional haze. "The sun climbs. It is time."
Han Li gave his parents one last, long look—a look meant to last a hundred lonely nights—then turned to his master.
"Let us go."
Han Li took a step, then another, falling into pace beside Physician Lu. He did not look back—not yet. He could feel the weight of the village's gaze on his back, a tangible pressure of hope, curiosity, and farewell. Only when they reached the bend in the main street, where the familiar view of the central well and the old blacksmith's shop was about to vanish, did he finally glance over his shoulder.
There they stood. His parents, side by side, a united front of love and loss. The villagers clustered behind them, a community witnessing one of their own step off the map of their shared world. His mother lifted a hand in a slow, final wave, her fingers trembling against the brightening sky.
Han Li's heart clenched, a physical pain beneath his ribs. He lifted his own hand in reply—a gesture of connection, of promise, of goodbye.
Then they rounded the corner, and the village disappeared from view.
Whispers bloomed in their wake, soft but fervent, carried on the morning breeze like seeds taking flight.
"The Han family is blessed by heaven itself…"
"Their boy…he'll be a great physician. He'll heal kings."
"Not just a physician—a cultivator!I heard the master is three hundred years old! He walks without touching the ground!"
"Imagine…an immortal from our little Lingshui. Our dirt and dust, producing a pearl."
"His parents will want for nothing now.Two hundred taels… they could buy the south field and still have silver left."
"Did you see his face?He looked… different. Like a young lord in those clothes. Born for more than this."
The rumors, once subtle seeds planted by Physician Lu himself, had taken wild root, growing into grand, hopeful legends. No one questioned them. In a place where hope was a currency rarer than silver, they clung to the most glorious version of the truth. The truth of a sixty-year-old mortal physician was far less compelling than the myth of a three-hundred-year-old immortal sage. And so, the myth became their reality.
---
At the entrance to the village, where the well-trodden path met the wilder, winding road leading into the mist-wrapped hills, Han Li paused. He turned and looked back one final time—down the long, dusty street he had known since his first steps. The street where he'd scraped his knees, where he'd raced other children at dusk, where he'd sat listening to Old Zhang's tales of cultivators and dragons, where he'd lain in the drought-cracked field and whispered his dreams to the clouds. It looked smaller now. Fainter, like a drawing left in the rain. Already receding, frame by frame, into memory.
He took a deep, deliberate breath, filling his lungs with the scent of home—dry earth, cold ashes from morning fires, the sweet-tang of dew on bitter grass. He sealed it inside him.
Then he turned his face to the road ahead, a narrow ribbon of packed earth and stone disappearing into the green unknown.
They walked.
For a long time, neither spoke. The only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot, the distant, lonely cry of a hawk circling high above, the sigh of the wind through endless fields of tall, whispering grass. The landscape slowly changed—the familiar, flat expanses of Lingshui's outskirts gave way to gentle, rolling slopes, then to dense stands of pine and birch whose shadows were deep and cool. The sun climbed, a pale gold coin in a vast blue bowl, its warmth a steady pressure on their backs.
Finally, as they began a slow ascent into the foothills, Han Li broke the silence. "Master… how long will it take us to reach our destination?"
Physician Lu glanced at him, a faint, unreadable smile touching his lips. "If we walk day and night without pause? Two days and two nights. If we rest at night, as mortals should… four days."
"So far," Han Li murmured, more to himself than to the old man.
"Yes."
"Then why…" Han Li hesitated, gathering his courage. The question had burned in him since the square. "Why did you come so far… just to select a disciple?"
Physician Lu was quiet for a dozen paces, his eyes on the path ahead. The only sound was their footfalls and the wind. "Who knows?" he said at last, his gaze distant, fixed on some point beyond the visible horizon. "Perhaps it was simply fate that drew me a thousand miles to that particular village. To you."
The answer was vague, poetic, and deliberately unrevealing. It carried a weight that felt intentional, a door left slightly ajar but not yet open. Han Li understood the boundary. He did not ask again.
The journey unfolded over four days and three nights. They walked through landscapes that shifted like dreams—through sun-dappled forests where light fell in shattered coins, across shallow, chattering streams whose water was clear and cold enough to make his teeth ache, over rocky passes where the world spread out below them in a breathtaking tapestry of green and grey. They rested under the skeletal arms of ancient, lightning-blasted trees, eating simple rations of dried meat, hard bread, and sweetberries that Physician Lu produced from his seemingly bottomless pack. Han Li's body ached with the unaccustomed relentless travel, muscles protesting, feet sore, but his mind was alert, hungry, absorbing everything—the way the mountains shrugged against the sky, the secret sounds of unseen creatures in the undergrowth, the vast, ever-changing theatre of clouds above.
On the fourth day, as the sun began its dignified descent, painting the western sky in washes of amber, rose, and deepening violet, they crested a final, wooded hill.
Below lay their destination.
It was a scene of such serene, hidden beauty that Han Li's breath caught in his throat. A small, secluded valley cradled a still, mirror-like lake that perfectly reflected the darkening sky. Several simple wooden huts, their roofs mossy with age, were scattered along its shore like sleeping creatures. Smoke curled from a single stone chimney, a thin grey thread of domesticity against the wilderness. Neat, geometric herb gardens glowed emerald and silver in the fading light. All of it was embraced by hills draped in deep, velvety green, sheltering the valley in a silent, protective embrace. It was peaceful, profoundly quiet, and utterly apart from the world.
Han Li stopped, his weariness forgotten. "Master… it's so beautiful. What is this place called?"
"Green Mountain Valley," Physician Lu said, and for the first time, Han Li heard a note of quiet, unmistakable pride in his teacher's voice.
"Green Mountain Valley," Han Li repeated. The name felt perfect on his tongue—simple, honest, and full of a quiet magic.
"Come, my good disciple. Your journey ends here. Let me show you your room."
Physician Lu led him down a narrow, winding path into the heart of the valley. They passed the silent, glassy lake, its surface perfectly still. They passed the largest hut, from which the scent of simmering herbs and woodsmoke emanated. Finally, they stopped at a small hut set slightly apart from the others, backed by a grove of slender bamboo that clattered softly in the evening breeze.
Inside was a single room, spartan but immaculately clean. A sturdy wooden bed frame held a pallet stuffed with fresh straw. A small, square table bore a simple ceramic oil lamp. A plain wooden chest stood against one wall. A single square window, framed by rough-hewn wood, looked out toward the darkening lake. It was exactly the kind of humble, functional space Han Li had imagined from stories—a place devoid of distraction, a blank page upon which a new life could be written.
"Rest early," Physician Lu said, lingering at the doorway. The fading light from outside silhouetted his form. "From tomorrow, your true training begins." His eyes, in the shadow, held a new, flinty intensity—a promise of rigor, discipline, and revelation.
Han Li bowed deeply, his hands pressed together. "Thank you, Master."
With a final, approving nod, Physician Lu left, pulling the door closed with a soft, definitive click.
Han Li stood alone in the center of the room. The silence here was profound, different from any he had known—deeper than the quiet of his village home, fuller than the silence of the forest. It hummed with the latent presence of the valley itself, with the weight of the coming training, with the enormity of his own choice.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the wood firm and unyielding beneath him. The events of the past days—the dazzling light, the crushing secret, the tearful farewell, the long road—all crashed over him in a sudden, weary wave.
His thoughts, held at bay by the relentless forward motion of the journey, now rushed into the vacant space.
Are Mother and Father eating well? Did they use a bit of the silver to buy pork for the broth? Is Father's back, bent from a lifetime in the fields, aching a little less tonight? Is Mother sleeping, or is she lying on her mat, staring into the dark, worrying about me?
The questions were a tender, persistent ache in his chest. He missed them with a sudden, physical sharpness that surprised him.
But alongside the missing, rising slow and steady from a deeper place, came a sense of… arrival. Of alignment. This was his path now. This quiet room, this mysterious master, this hidden valley at the edge of the world. This was where he would learn, would grow, would become someone who could choose his own fate.
A profound exhaustion, accumulated over four days of relentless travel and a lifetime of emotional upheaval compressed into a week, settled over him like a cloak of lead. His limbs felt heavy, his eyes gritty and warm.
He did not undress. He simply lay back on the bed, still wearing the green tunic that marked his new beginning, and stared up at the darkening ceiling where the first shadows of night were pooling.
Slowly, the evening sounds of Green Mountain Valley wove around him—the last, plaintive calls of birds settling in the bamboo, the gentle, rhythmic lap of the lake against its stony shore, the whisper of a rising wind moving through the pines on the hillside. Together, they formed a soft, natural lullaby.
Han Li's eyes closed. Not in sleep, at first, but in a final surrender to the day. To the journey. To the boy he had been, now left behind on the road.
Then, breath by slowing breath, the tiredness of the day—of the four days, of the farewell, of the hope and the hunger and the silent, secret weight he now carried—pulled him gently, irresistibly under.
He slept.