Chapter 10 – The First Step
The morning air carried a cool freshness as sunlight spilled through the narrow gaps between the trees that lined the edge of the abandoned courtyard. It was a forgotten part of the city, a place where time seemed reluctant to pass, with cracked stone tiles and moss creeping along the edges of broken walls. To the boy, it was an unfamiliar place of ruin; to the man, it was a reminder of countless training grounds he had once overseen, where generations of disciples had sweated, bled, and risen to greatness.
The young Zhoa heir knelt with his back straight, waiting with a seriousness that belied his years. His fists were clenched against his knees, not in fear, but in anticipation. The man before him stood with his hands folded behind his back, silent for a long while, his eyes tracing the fading marks of forgotten strength etched in the courtyard's stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, commanding, and yet almost solemn.
"Today, you take your first step."
The boy's eyes brightened, but he dared not interrupt.
The man continued, his tone deeper now. "You must understand—cultivation is not merely power. It is not strength of muscle, nor sharpness of blade, nor the speed of your stride. It is the tempering of the body, the expansion of the mind, and the awakening of the spirit. Without all three, you are nothing more than a child waving sticks."
The words carried weight, but more than that, they carried something the boy could feel even if he did not fully understand. His heart beat faster as though the very air thickened around him.
The man turned, his gaze falling on the horizon where steel towers of the modern city rose. "But this world has long since forgotten what cultivation is. They have their machines, their weapons, their fragile notions of control. What they call strength is but dust in the wind. You must prepare yourself to walk a path none around you will see, let alone understand."
The boy swallowed hard, determination glinting in his eyes. "Master, I am ready."
The faintest of smiles tugged at the man's lips, a smile not of approval, but of recognition. "We shall see."
He stepped closer, his hands lifting slightly as though shaping the very air. "Stand."
The boy rose to his feet, his posture straight though his legs trembled under the weight of the moment.
"First, your body must learn stillness. Without stillness, you cannot sense. Without sensing, you cannot draw. Without drawing, you cannot refine. Sit in the stance of the horse."
The boy obeyed, lowering into the wide-legged stance, his knees immediately protesting. His breathing grew ragged within moments, his body unaccustomed to such demand.
"Good. Endure."
Minutes dragged into an eternity. The boy's arms shook, sweat gathered along his brow, and yet he bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out. The man said nothing, only watched, his gaze unwavering.
When the boy nearly collapsed, the man finally spoke, his tone calm but sharp as a blade. "Remember this pain. It is weakness screaming. You do not silence it by surrendering. You silence it by conquering."
The boy forced himself lower, trembling harder, every breath burning.
At last, the man raised a hand, and the command came: "Enough."
The boy dropped, gasping, his small chest heaving like a bellows. He looked up at his master, expecting reprimand for his weakness, but instead found the man kneeling beside him, pressing two fingers gently against his chest.
"Now… breathe."
The boy frowned, confused. "I—I am breathing…"
"Not with your chest. With your being."
The man's fingers glowed faintly—not with light visible to the eyes, but with a sensation the boy could feel deep within. Suddenly, his breath grew smoother, deeper, as though a hidden passage in his body had been unlocked.
The man's voice was low. "The world is filled with essence. Not the air, not the light—something beneath both. It is subtle, patient, eternal. If you can sense it, you can draw it. If you can draw it, you can refine it. Close your eyes."
The boy obeyed, shutting out the ruined courtyard, shutting out his own exhaustion.
"Listen," the man whispered, his voice like the rolling of distant thunder. "Not with your ears. Listen with the marrow of your bones. Feel with the rivers of your blood. The essence does not rush—it waits. It has waited since before your birth. Let it touch you."
For a long time, the boy sat still, his breaths slowly falling into rhythm. At first, there was nothing but darkness and his pounding heart. But then… faintly, like a thread brushed across his skin, something stirred. He felt it—a coolness, soft and ancient, slipping through the cracks of his being.
His eyes snapped open in wonder. "Master—I felt—"
The man raised a hand, silencing him. "Do not speak. Hold it. Do not let it scatter."
The boy shut his eyes again, gripping the sensation, his face twisting with effort. It was fragile, fleeting, like trying to hold water in his palms. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not from exertion of muscle, but from the strain of spirit.
At last, his body swayed and he gasped, the thread slipping away. He opened his eyes, ashamed. "I lost it…"
The man regarded him in silence for a moment, then spoke with a rare softness. "You touched it on your first attempt. That alone is remarkable. Many never glimpse it even after years of training."
The boy's eyes widened. "Truly?"
The man nodded once. "Truly. Remember it well. That thread is the beginning of your path. In time, it will become a stream, then a river, and one day… an ocean."
The boy's chest swelled with pride, but the man's next words struck like cold iron.
"But do not be arrogant. A single thread cannot shield you from even a falling leaf. You are still nothing. Never forget that."
The boy lowered his head, chastened, but the fire in his eyes only grew.
The man rose, his hands once again behind his back, his gaze cast skyward as though piercing the heavens themselves. "Your training begins today, but know this: cultivation is not meant for this world. The path you walk will isolate you, perhaps even destroy you. The world you know has no place for what you will become. Are you prepared to carry that weight?"
The boy looked up, his small fists clenched tightly. His voice trembled, but it carried unwavering resolve. "I am, Master."
For a moment, the man simply watched him. Then, slowly, he gave a single approving nod.
The wind stirred through the courtyard, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and a silence that felt profound. Though no one else could see it, though no machine could measure it, the first step had been taken.
In the stillness of that forgotten place, an ancient path was being reopened—not by empires, not by armies, but by a boy kneeling before a man who had once ruled the heavens.
The world remained oblivious, but destiny had begun to stir.