The chill had deepened as autumn settled over Mount Hwa. Leaves rustled like whispered secrets in the wind, their colors like fire scattered across stone.
Elder Sun summoned me alone one morning. He stood near the edge of a narrow cliff path, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. I bowed respectfully.
He did not turn to face me. "You've felt the qi move."
"Yes, Elder."
"And it has begun to follow your will."
"To a degree," I said. "Only faintly. Slowly."
He nodded. "That is how true cultivation should begin. Not with force. Not with ambition. With presence."
He stepped aside and gestured toward the winding path. "Follow me."
We walked in silence. The trail twisted down the cliffs and led to an old cavern partially hidden by a collapsed stone arch. Elder Sun ducked under the crumbled entrance and entered. I followed.
Inside, torches flared to life with a gesture of his hand. The flamelight revealed a narrow chamber carved into the earth. Symbols etched into the stone shimmered faintly with qi.
"This place was once used by the founders of Mount Hwa," Elder Sun said. "Before swordsmanship became our only pride, there were those who understood the balance between steel and spirit."
In the center of the chamber sat a stone pedestal. On it rested a round basin filled with dark water.
"You will meditate here," Elder Sun said. "This place holds echoes of the qi left by those who came before. Let it teach you."
He left without another word.
I sat before the basin, feeling the weight of the mountain press in around me. The air was thick—not with dust, but with a quiet pressure, like a held breath.
Closing my eyes, I reached inward. The ember responded almost instantly now, a calm pulse in my center. I guided it upward, into my chest, then down through my arms.
The moment it touched my palms, the basin trembled. The water rippled—not from wind or movement, but from resonance.
I inhaled sharply, trying not to lose focus. The qi curled along my arms like smoke, uncertain but willing. I didn't force it. I let it reach.
The water's surface shimmered. For a moment, I saw an image—a great tree with black bark and glowing leaves, roots buried deep in stone.
Then it vanished.
I opened my eyes, breath short.
The basin was still. But the warmth in my limbs remained. I had seen something—not a vision, perhaps, but a memory of the mountain itself. Or a piece of what cultivation could become.
That night, I returned to Dan and So-Yeon. I didn't speak of the vision. Not yet. But they noticed the difference.
"You're quieter than usual," So-Yeon said.
Dan poked my shoulder. "You see a ghost or something?"
"Something like that," I replied.
They didn't press. They just sat beside me, watching the fire.
I stared into the flames, remembering the tree of black bark. It felt like the mountain had shown me a door. And now, I needed to learn how to open it.
Slow. Steady.
Stone by stone.