The dawn that followed was calm.
Mist drifted between the mountains, wrapping the sect in silver light. Shen Yelan woke before the bell, the faint warmth of the dark stone still lingering against his side. It had grown quiet through the night, yet something in him felt changed—his breath deeper, his steps steadier, as if the world around him had slowed by a single heartbeat.
He did not dwell on it.
He only tightened the strap of his satchel, tucked the stone close, and stepped outside into the morning air. The scent of damp soil met him, fresh and cold. The Radiant Sword Sect stirred to life in the distance, its courtyards glowing with the first touch of sun.
The sun rose slowly over the Radiant Sword Sect, spilling warm light across the terraces and gardens. Shen Yelan adjusted the strap of his satchel and stepped into the courtyard, where the outer disciples were already at work. The scent of damp earth mixed with the faint aroma of incense from stone burners, creating a calm, steady atmosphere.
Today, his task was to tend to the herbal garden near the eastern wall. It was not difficult work, but it required patience, careful hands, and quiet focus. The soil was soft from the morning dew, and the small plants swayed gently under the sun. Yelan knelt, brushing his hands against the earth, noticing how each root twisted differently, how some leaves caught the light in a sharper green than others.
As he worked, he observed the other disciples. Some moved quickly, their hands sure, their bodies light and easy. Others struggled like him, fumbling with the water buckets or bending too low to reach the lower rows. They whispered among themselves, occasionally glancing at Yelan, some with curiosity, some with amusement.
Yelan did not answer. He kept digging, planting, and watering, letting his mind focus on the rhythm of his work. Each drop of water he poured, each plant he straightened, felt like a small victory.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, and the courtyard began to feel warmer. Yelan's hands were dusty and wet, his back stiff, but he did not stop. He noticed how the smaller plants leaned toward the sun, how the soil darkened after the water soaked in, how tiny insects moved along the leaves. He worked not because he was forced to, but because he wanted to see something grow.
Around midday, a group of higher disciples passed through the garden. Their robes shimmered in the sun, their movements precise, almost effortless.
In the quiet after they left, Yelan noticed something odd. A small sprout in the corner of the garden seemed to lean toward him, its green deeper than the others. He frowned, unsure if it was the light or just his imagination. He straightened the plant, brushed the soil around it, and continued working.
The day passed slowly. He carried water, pulled weeds, and checked the roots of each herb. The repetitive work could have been dull, but Yelan found a strange rhythm in it. Each task demanded attention, care, and patience—things he had never needed in Willow Village.
As the sun began to set, the courtyard quieted. Most of the disciples had returned to their dormitories or training grounds. Yelan knelt in the fading light, looking at the neat rows of herbs he had tended. They were not perfect, but they were alive, healthy, and growing.
He sat back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his brow, and thought of the path that had brought him here. His journey had been long, hard, and full of quiet disappointments. Yet in this small garden, with dirt under his nails and the scent of earth in his nose, he felt something settle deep inside him—patience, persistence, the knowledge that effort, no matter how small, mattered.
Night came, and the courtyard emptied. Yelan remained, moving slowly among the plants, checking each one carefully. He adjusted a leaf here, brushed some soil there, and noticed the same small sprout from before. It seemed to glimmer faintly in the moonlight, but Yelan did not know why. He simply set it straight and went to the edge of the garden to rest.
The stars were bright overhead, cold and distant, yet steady. Yelan leaned against the garden wall, letting the cool night air wash over him. He thought of his father, of Willow Village, and of the long road ahead. He thought of the small victories, the quiet lessons, and the steady, patient work that would be required to survive in this world.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Tomorrow, he would rise early and return to the garden. He would carry water, tend plants, and move slowly through the chores again. But he would not see it as a burden. It was a beginning—small, quiet, and entirely his own.