Sultan woke up on the morning of the third day since his meeting with Muneer. The sun hadn't risen yet, but he was used to waking early. He sat on his hard bed, reached his hand under the pillow. The small pouch was still there, and beside it, the wooden box containing the cultivation pill. He touched them gently, then rose.
Today was point distribution day.
Every disciple in the High Sky Wing received their monthly points on this day. For ordinary disciples, points ranged from thirty to a hundred, depending on their rank and tasks. As for trial disciples, they received only ten points. Ten points barely sufficed for one good meal, let alone buying pills or techniques.
Sultan put on his threadbare garment and left his room. The air was cold as usual, the sky gray. The sweeping courtyard was clean, done by someone else in his place. He didn't know who, and he didn't care. He was thinking about something else.
In the dining hall, he ate a stale loaf with some water. He didn't see Naghme this morning. Perhaps she was busy in the Dark Hall. He didn't see Harith either, which was relieving.
After breakfast, he headed to the Contribution Hall.
The building stood in the middle of the wing, larger and more magnificent than the others. Its stone facade was precisely carved, and its colored glass windows reflected the creeping sunlight. On either side of the main door, two guards stood wearing light armor, watching everyone entering and leaving cautiously.
Sultan entered carefully.
The inside was more spacious than it appeared from outside. A large hall filled with disciples, jostling in front of long wooden windows. Behind each window, a clerk sat on a high chair, before them a pile of papers and wooden boxes containing pills, techniques, and small weapons.
The smells were dense: the scent of old paper, fresh ink, medicinal herbs, and light metals. Sounds overlapped: disciples' whispers, the scratch of pens, the thud of point stamps, and the creak of wooden boxes.
Sultan stood in the corner watching.
This was a familiar scene. He stood here every month, watching other disciples buy their dreams. But today was different. Today, he carried in his pocket some points from Muneer. Not many, but enough to buy something small.
He approached one of the windows. The clerk behind it was a young man in his twenties, thin, with thick glasses and eyes not devoid of boredom.
"Name?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"Sultan. Trial disciple."
The clerk gave him a quick look, then flipped through his paper register. He ran his finger over the names, then stopped.
"Sultan... Sultan... Ah, here." He looked at him again. "Ten points this month."
He took out ten small metal coins from the drawer, placed them on the counter before Sultan. They were dull, smaller than those Muneer had given him, but they were real points.
Sultan took them slowly. He placed them in his pocket, beside the remains of Muneer's points. Then he stepped back, but didn't leave. He stood aside, contemplating the hall.
He began observing.
A few steps away, a seventeen-year-old disciple was placing a pouch of points on the counter. He counted them quickly: fifty points. He exchanged them for a small wooden box, opened it carefully, revealing a shimmering blue pill. A medium-grade cultivation pill, worth a month of ordinary training.
Sultan closed his eyes for a moment, imagined himself holding that pill. Imagined energy flowing through his body, imagined himself standing among the strong, with no one daring to provoke him.
He opened his eyes. The disciple had left.
At another table, a young female disciple was negotiating with the clerk. She wanted a combat technique, an ancient scroll wrapped in silk. The clerk explained that her points weren't enough, so she left the scroll with regret and walked away.
Sultan followed her with his eyes. He felt a pang of sorrow. He knew that feeling. The feeling of wanting something with all your soul, yet being unable to reach it.
Near the door, he saw two disciples exchanging points with wide smiles. One was selling a rare pill to the other, the deal seeming successful. They congratulated each other, then left together.
Sultan sighed.
At that moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned quickly to find Muneer standing behind him. The old man was smiling a calm, mysterious smile.
"Contemplating the world, boy?"
"Yes... I was just looking."
Muneer sat on a nearby wooden bench, gestured for Sultan to sit beside him. They sat together contemplating the hall.
"Do you know what the most expensive thing here is?" Muneer suddenly asked.
Sultan thought briefly. "Rare cultivation pills?"
Muneer shook his head.
"Secret combat techniques?"
He shook his head again.
"I don't know."
Muneer looked at him with wise eyes. "The most expensive thing here is time. The time you waste waiting, hesitating, fearing. These disciples you see buying and selling, most of them will never achieve anything. Because they believe strength comes from outside, from pills and techniques."
He gestured with his hand toward the crowding disciples.
"Pills help, and techniques are useful. But real strength comes from here." He placed his hand on his chest. "From willpower. From patience. From the ability to rise after every fall."
Sultan listened attentively.
"You, boy, have something these others don't. You have hunger. Not stomach hunger, but soul hunger. You want to become strong because you know the meaning of weakness. That is the difference."
He paused briefly, then rose.
"Don't waste your points on things you don't need. Come to me whenever you want real learning."
And he walked away, leaving Sultan alone on the bench.
Sultan pondered Muneer's words. Soul hunger. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps this was what drove him to wake every morning, to endure cold, hunger, and humiliation.
He rose and left the hall.
Outside, the air was colder. The sky had become overcast, and it seemed rain was about to fall. He stood before the hall for a moment, contemplating the cold stone.
He felt a faint warmth in his chest. That mysterious warmth he couldn't explain. This time, he wasn't afraid of it. He placed his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.
At that moment, he heard a voice behind him.
"Sultan."
He turned. It was Suad. The cold girl who had saved him in the dining hall two days ago. She stood a few steps away, looking at him with her piercing blue eyes.
"What are you doing here?"
He hesitated for a moment. "I came out of the Contribution Hall. I was... contemplating."
She looked at his hand, still on his chest. She raised an eyebrow slightly.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes." He removed his hand quickly. "I'm fine."
She was silent for a moment, then said: "Harith is looking for you. He said he'll teach you a lesson. Beware of him."
Then she turned and walked away, leaving Sultan alone in the cold.
He looked at the sky. The clouds had thickened. The first drops of rain began to fall.
Harith was looking for him. A harsh lesson was coming. Was he ready? No. But he had to face it.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, touched the remains of the points. Then he walked toward his room, under the increasing rain.
That night, he sat in his room, contemplating the wooden box containing the cultivation pill. He thought about Muneer's words, about Suad's warning, about the disciples' looks in the Contribution Hall, about his soul hunger.
He opened the box. The brown pill gleamed in the faint candlelight.
For the first time, he seriously considered taking it. Perhaps now. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps when he was truly ready.
He closed the box and placed it under the pillow. He lay on his bed, listening to the rain on the wooden roof.
He felt the warmth in his chest again. This time, it was warm as fire.
He closed his eyes.
In the darkness, a thought occurred to him: Perhaps this warmth wasn't just a feeling. Perhaps it was something else. Something he didn't yet understand.
But the questions would wait until morning.
He slept.
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