Old Wang scraped at a root with a blunt knife near the threshold. His eyes flicked toward the path disappearing into the familiar grey haze of the swamp.
"Seen Guo Zhang?" he rasped, addressing Xi Ran, who was walking past with a half-empty basket.
Xi Ran shook his head. Guo Zhang, a local troublemaker with skin tinged the color of soil—side effect of his "breathing technique"—often vanished for days chasing swamp beasts far from the village.
"Spotted him by the reeds this morning," Xi Ran replied curtly. "He was chasing a Lepidodendron. He'll be back."
Old Wang grunted, but the worry in his eyes remained. Guo Zhang, crude as he was, offered some degree of protection to Misty Shoal from the minor filth that lurked in the marsh.
Xi Ran headed for his hut. The air, as always, hung wet and heavy, carrying the scent of dampness and a sweetish pollen mingled with the stink of muck. Deceit, a thought flickered—but he brushed it away. It didn't matter. He needed to brew a decoction for his father, whose breathing had grown wheezy again.
He hadn't yet stepped inside when he heard an unusual murmur of voices near the village's guardian spirit—a moss-covered, misshapen idol. Three strangers in grey, faded robes stood there. On their chests: an embroidered sharp leaf, shaped like a falling blade. The Sect of the Falling Leaf.
One of them, an elder with a thorny gaze—Elder Ji—was addressing a group of gathered youths. He spoke of "The Path," of "Power," of opportunity for those willing to leave this backwater. Xi Ran paused in the shadows, listening. Power? Like Guo Zhang's? Not exactly an enticing offer.
Elder Ji's gaze locked onto Xi Ran. The old man stepped toward him, holding a strange, light, dry leaf—almost translucent, yellow in hue.
"Take this," the elder said, placing the leaf in Xi Ran's palm.
Xi Ran nearly dropped it. Cold! A biting, bone-deep chill. And something else—emptiness. Then, a faint tremble from within the leaf. And a whispering sense: Look. See. He blinked. The leaf was dry and dead again.
"What did you feel?" Elder Ji asked, not looking away.
Xi Ran swallowed. "Cold. Emptiness. Then… it trembled. Like it was alive, for a second."
The corners of the old man's mouth twitched. "Your eyes work. Here, you'll wither—like your parents. Want to know what this place really hides? Come with us. To the Sect."
Xi Ran looked back at his hut. At the curtain behind which his father's labored breaths rasped. A chance. The only one. Sect or not, the old man's stare or not… See. That word lodged itself in his mind.
"Fine," he exhaled. "I'll come."
Elder Ji nodded. "Pack your things. We leave before dark. Night's not safe here."
---
The Sect of the Falling Leaf revealed itself to Xi Ran as a cluster of dilapidated buildings tucked between hills. The air smelled of old wood, dust, and… damp foliage.
They placed him in the novice barracks—a cold room with wooden bunks.
Morning brought labor. Xi Ran and a few other newcomers were given baskets and led into the Whispering Willow Grove. The trees grew dense here, their long branches drooping low, covered in green and yellowing leaves. The ground was carpeted with last year's decay and freshly fallen foliage.
"Gather 'Willow's Tear,'" the overseer instructed—a stocky man with a harsh glare. He pointed at transparent resin droplets seeping from cracks in the willow bark. "Carefully. One drop per vial. Full basket by noon."
Xi Ran got to work. The resin was sticky, sharp-smelling. His hands quickly turned slick. Around him, other novices scurried about. A little farther away, under a large willow, sat two senior disciples in grey robes marked with two embroidered leaves. They were meditating.
As soon as they closed their eyes, the air wavered around them. A faint but visible stream of misty breath drifted from the ground and trees toward them. Spiritual Qi? Xi Ran wondered, watching from the corner of his eye. That was power. Not clumsy, like Guo Zhang's—but controlled.
He focused back on the resin. A drop squeezed from a crack—into the vial. See, the thought echoed again, a memory from the leaf. Xi Ran blinked. For a moment, he thought he saw a pure, emerald flash inside the clear sap. He shook his head. Sunlight, maybe. Or just fatigue.
He placed the vial in his basket, reached for another drop. Work was work. He had to meet the quota. And figure out how to get something useful for his father. As for the trembling leaf and emerald flashes… best to keep quiet. It all sounded too strange.
---
The days settled into monotony: collecting Willow's Tear, then "training."
Senior disciple Lin Feng—tall, perpetually irritable—drilled them in the "Sleeping Heron Stance."
"Feet wider! Knees bent! Back straight!" Lin Feng barked, tapping legs with a thin cane. "Feel the ground! Breathe deeper! Focus!"
Xi Ran stood, legs numb. He could feel the ground—solid, uneven. He breathed. Focused… on the pain. Power? Nothing. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Lin Feng. The man held the same stance—but the air around him looked denser, moving. A Qi vortex. It worked—for him. Maybe Xi Ran's spiritual root was weak. Maybe he didn't have one at all.
At night in the barracks, the novices groaned, rubbing aching legs. Xi Ran sat on his hard bunk, staring at the cracked skin on his hands from the resin. Spiritual Root Perception Ability, he thought. That's what he lacked. Lin Feng had it. The meditating ones had it.
And him? Just eyes that saw odd flashes in sap. Leaves that shivered. Useless.
He shut his eyes, recalling the emerald glow—once in the swamp lily, again in the Willow's Tear. Bright. Pure. Unlike the Sect's murky Qi.
Could that be the sign? the thought came—but he pushed it away. Nonsense. Everyone here talked of Qi, concentration, stances. No one spoke of emerald flashes.
He had to endure. Gather resin. Hold the stance. Wait.
Wait for a chance to manifest something real. Or at least collect enough "Tears" to barter for healing herbs for his father. The rest could wait.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow—back to the Grove. Back to the resin. Back to Lin Feng and his cane.
And once more, he'd find himself seeking, in those transparent drops, the strange and useless emerald gleam.