The days passed slowly in the Radiant Sword Sect.
Shen Yelan's mornings began before the sun rose. Each dawn, he fetched water from the mountain spring, his hands red from the cold. Then he worked in the herb gardens — trimming roots, watering fragile plants, clearing fallen leaves. The smell of soil and herbs clung to his clothes long after the day ended.
The work was hard, but he never complained.
No one noticed him much.
To the other outer disciples, he was just another nameless boy — quiet, patient, and forgettable.
Sometimes, he watched the others training. Their swords flashed under the light, qi humming faintly around them. Every swing, every stance, carried strength he couldn't touch. When he tried to copy them in secret, his movements felt heavy and wrong — like a bird trying to swim.
Still, he practiced.
Every night, after his chores were done and the gardens were silent, he stood beneath the moon and swung a wooden sword until his arms trembled.
That night was no different.
The wind was cold, carrying the scent of wet grass. The moon hung low behind the clouds. Yelan's breath came slow and steady as he swung again and again. Sweat rolled down his neck, falling into the dirt.
When he finally stopped, the sect grounds were quiet. Even the insects had gone still.
He leaned against the fence, looking up at the sky. The stars here were brighter than those in the village — sharp, endless, unblinking. He wondered if the heavens ever looked back.
His eyes drifted toward the slope behind the herb fields. A narrow stream ran there, hidden between rocks and tall grass. The moonlight caught something in the water — a faint glimmer, soft but clear.
Curious, Yelan walked closer.
The stream whispered softly, flowing over smooth stones. The light shimmered again, caught between two rocks. He crouched down and reached into the cold water.
His fingers touched something smooth — round, almost warm despite the chill.
He lifted it slowly.
It was a small pearl, no larger than a fingernail. But unlike any he had seen before, it wasn't white. It was dark — deep gray, almost black — yet faint light pulsed within it, like a single breath trapped inside.
For a long moment, he just stared.
It didn't shine brightly, nor did it hum with power. It was quiet. Ordinary, even. But for some reason, he couldn't look away.
The moonlight touched the pearl's surface, and the faint light inside shifted — just once, like a heartbeat.
Yelan frowned. He waited, but nothing else happened.
Maybe it was just a trick of the light.
He turned it over in his palm, the water dripping between his fingers. The pearl was cold again, lifeless, yet oddly comforting to hold.
After a moment, he wrapped it carefully in a small cloth and tucked it inside his satchel.
As he straightened, the wind moved through the grass — soft, almost like a sigh.
He looked around, but there was no one there. The night felt the same as before — still, cold, empty.
Yelan took one last glance at the stream. The moon reflected in the water, rippling gently. Then he turned and walked back toward his hut.
That night, Shen Yelan lay awake.
The candle had long burned out, but sleep didn't come. The room was silent except for the faint rustle of wind outside.
His satchel rested near his pillow. Through the thin cloth, he could still feel the pearl's shape against his palm — cool at first, then strangely warm, as if it remembered the touch of the stream.
He turned over, frowning. It was foolish to think about it so much. A stone was just a stone. Yet every time he closed his eyes, that faint light seemed to appear again behind his eyelids, pulsing softly in the dark.
He sighed and pulled the satchel closer, almost without thinking. The warmth eased through the cloth, steady, quiet.
Before long, his breathing slowed, and the sound of the mountain night faded away.
Outside, the moon slipped behind the clouds. The gardens lay still. Only the faint ripple of water from the stream broke the silence — as if something beneath the surface was slowly, patiently, beginning to wake.