Chapter 15: Threads of Balance
Days passed quietly after the announcement. The sect grew livelier with whispers of the trial, yet Lin Feng's world remained small: the sea breeze outside his hut, the creak of weathered wood, and the slow rhythm of his breathing.
Each dawn, he sat cross-legged, drawing qi into his veins. His storm veins thrummed faintly, like strings waiting to be tuned.
Water flowed first, gentle and steady, filling his meridians with cool clarity. Then wind brushed through, lighter, harder to grasp, but graceful once caught. Last came the faintest crackle—lightning, sharp and fleeting, like a bird darting through the storm.
Bringing them together was no simple task.
Sometimes the water would smother the wind. Sometimes the wind scattered the droplet before it could form. And lightning… lightning struck without pattern, tearing apart what little harmony he had built.
Many mornings ended with failure, his palm empty, his body aching from the strain. Yet each failure left behind a trace—an echo that made the next attempt slightly smoother.
By the fifth day, his droplet spun longer before scattering. By the seventh, the breeze lingered at its side. And on the eighth day, a single spark flashed within the droplet without destroying it.
It lasted only a breath before vanishing, but Lin Feng's heart stirred.
Balance… it is not control, he realized. It is allowing each thread to move without erasing the others.
He opened his eyes slowly, sweat dampening his brow. Outside, the waves crashed endlessly, a sound that no longer seemed distant. With each day of practice, the sea's voice grew clearer—as if its rhythm matched the pulse of his veins.
The sect's disciples prepared in their own ways, sharpening blades, boasting of strength, speaking of glory in the trial. But Lin Feng's preparation was quiet, almost invisible.
He was not trying to stand above them. He was only listening—to the storm within, and to the sea without.
For now, that was enough.