For an immortal, centuries pass the way dew evaporates—quietly, leaving only faint coolness behind.
When Dave opened his eyes from meditation, no cloud in the outer sky had moved. Yet somewhere inside him entire lives had been lived, poems written, and another generation had bowed in Lumara Valley.
He rose, stretching, feeling the familiar resistance of air that had forgotten to age.
Outside, Cloudmarket City looked unchanged: mist running between roof‑tiles, chime‑birds singing hollow notes, beggars arguing beneath the same cracked arch.
But something beneath appearances had shifted—the air around him carried the aftertaste of warmth, a pulse too soft for thunder and too quick for wind.
It was the rhythm of his miniature world, faint yet distinct, echoing through his own life.
1 – RipplesHe noticed first in colors.
The city's mist no longer silvered; it had begun to glint with pale gold when sunlight pierced it.
Painters who sold scrolls near the market suddenly favored spiral patterns and calm horizons instead of dragons and battles.
Street musicians tuned zithers to gentler tones; even their quarrels ended with chuckles rather than curses.
Old Qiu felt it too.
One morning, squinting at his gourd, he muttered, "The air tastes sweeter. You been sprinkling sugar on the wind again, boy?"
Dave smiled. "Maybe someone else learned to breathe better."
"Ha! Don't mock me with your mystery poetry. Even my dice roll balanced lately—half win, half lose. Terrible luck!"
He laughed anyway, perhaps the first sincere laugh since last century.
Dave only swept the stones in wide slow spirals, watching the mist rise just slightly faster each turn.
2 – Whisper Among ArtisansIn the inner rings, trends spread—soft rather than grand.
Weavers began stitching concentric motifs unknowingly identical to Lumara's Circle of Balance.
When asked, they simply said, "The pattern feels restful."
Scribes composed verses about symmetry between work and rest, harvest and waiting.
An essay circulated anonymously: "On Motion and Return."
It spoke of unlearned patience, claiming, "Heaven breathes in cycles; to force wind is to lose it."
Scholars argued the author must be some forgotten saint. None realized a tiny karmic thread from a mortal girl named Mei Luo had carried across dreams into one immortal's inspiration.
Dave read the essay at a teahouse, a soft grin bending his lips. "Carried well," he murmured.
3 – New WeatherSmall rains began falling irregularly over Cloudmarket—a rarity, for immortal weather was ruled by arrays rather than chance.
The rain washes carried no spiritual energy, just fragrance; the kind of simple clean water no immortal had smelled since childhood.
Beggars ran laughing through puddles.
City engineers frowned at their gauge crystals; none could find formation fluctuations.
Heaven itself, it seemed, was following a rhythm outside control.
Dave walked beneath one shower, no umbrella, robe plastered against his frame. Drops slid like warm glass over his hands.
The same pattern of rainfall beat upon Lumara Valley at that exact breath—he felt it echo inside, like two pulses meeting.
4 – Echo of SongA young immortal bard set up a stand in the mid‑market.
His song startled listeners with human softness:
"Beneath three suns I heard a name,
Not carved in jade but whispered flame.
It burned no palace, soothed no king;
It taught the wind itself to sing."
The crowd scattered half‑confused, half‑moved.
No one knew where the lyric came from; the bard claimed it arrived "in dreams, as if from a world still mortal."
Dave, listening from the shade, closed his eyes—he could almost hear the language of his miniature world vibrating through the melody.
The karmic tone matched the lullabies of Grey Leaf's monks generations burnt to dust.
A loop complete, yet unnoticed.
5 – Dave and the ScribeLater that week he visited an old calligrapher named Shi Ren who had once engraved verses on karmic seals.
She greeted him without surprise. "You're the broom poet, aren't you? Or the quiet philosopher? Everyone brings me your sayings run in circles."
"I only sweep," Dave said.
She laughed softly. "Perhaps, but the city sweeps itself softer now. Strange—my ink flows easier lately, as though words write me instead."
He watched her brush dance in water. Each stroke curved into near‑perfect spirals.
The final character formed Peace yet contained motion, as if spinning.
"Beautiful," he said.
"It came by accident."
She blew gently on it; the ink shimmered. "Maybe Heaven's bored of sharp edges."
6 – Heaven's Unspoken ApprovalThat night, as he sat atop Cloudmarket's outer parapet, lights of the city reflected in mist like constellations of another sky.
He realized the daoic current circling the metropolis had changed direction slightly—not through design, but desire.
Qi flowed more evenly, formations resonating in harmony no architect had intended.
The city guardians rejoiced, reporting to the high council that "natural order achieves self‑stabilization"—but no one could explain how.
They built monuments to thank Heaven for its charity.
He knew. It wasn't charity; it was correspondence.
All that patience cultivated below had reached balance enough to echo upward.
Creation had taught its creator to breathe.
7 – A Visit to the Inner CityCuriosity led Dave inward one day, through gates he had rarely crossed.
The inner districts gleamed; immortal nobles debated elegant ethics over cups of spirit tea that never cooled.
Among them he heard a conversation that made him pause.
A scholar recited:
"One should neither hoard merit nor scatter it; to move in rhythm with self and world is the immortal way."
Others nodded as if hearing new revelation.
Dave felt laughter rise but contained it. "Even here the river turns," he whispered.
8 – Old Qiu's QuestionThat evening Old Qiu joined him beside the wall, gourd half empty.
"What do you see up there, boy?"
"Light reflecting off water," Dave said.
"And underneath?"
"Water reflecting light."
The old beggar chuckled. "That's the same thing."
"Yes," Dave said quietly. "Exactly."
Qiu wheezed into his gourd. "You talk wiser every century. Scares me."
They sat until night swallowed the city, watching mist twist into circles around lanterns.
Neither noticed how those circles matched the spirals carved long ago on Silver Vein Grass fields.
9 – Dream within DreamThat night Dave dreamed—if immortals can still dream.
He walked through corridors of mirrored air. Each mirror reflected both worlds: Lumara's valleys and Cloudmarket's alleys alternating like heartbeat and breath.
From one side came children's laughter; from the other, the hush of immortals sweeping courtyards in spirals, unconscious imitation.
The worlds touched, not colliding but singing opposite notes of the same chord.
In the dream a voice, no different from his own, said:
"The gardener and the garden breathe alike."
He tried to reply but the mirrors melted into light.
10 – Subtle ConsequencesWhen he woke, the feeling lingered.
Minor phenomena rippled through the city:
- Spirit lamps burned steadier, needing less qi.
- Meditation Chambers reported sudden insights—simple, not grand, but genuine.
- Tense families reconciled after centuries, as if weariness itself had grown shy of discord.
Temple officials noted increased harmonious energy output across Cloudmarket arrays, naming it "Heaven's Decade of Calm."
Dave just called it breathing space.
11 – Karmic NodesWhile examining a lotus pond one afternoon, he saw something impossible: fine threads of golden mist rising from the water, repeating the same pulse he had sensed earlier.
They weren't formed by local deeds but echoes of karmic resonance—what mortals below emitted when they practiced compassion or humility.
Each wisp ascended from his chest unseen, traveled distances beyond understanding, and diffused into Heaven's fabric as gentle sweetness in air.
He wondered: If this continues, will the worlds forget they were separate?
The thought didn't frighten him.
Perhaps forgetting was another form of unity.
12 – The Painter and the ChildDays later, wandering the mid‑market, he saw a painter showing a child how to draw.
"Don't copy the thing," the painter said. "Copy how it breathes."
He guided her small hand in slow spirals to outline a skywhale.
Dave stopped, watching. He remembered similar words centuries ago in another sky.
He bought the child's finished drawing for one Crystal Coin.
She looked up, puzzled. "Why? It's crooked."
He smiled. "Crooked things teach Heaven to see straight."
When he walked away, the air beside her shimmered faintly—a karmic blessing she'd never notice, only feel years later as inexplicable confidence.
13 – ReflectionEvening spread amber through rain‑wet roofs.
From high above, the circular city resembled a single Spiral Sigil—its outer walls curved by geography, inner avenues by planning long forgotten.
Had they built it so unconsciously under Heaven's inspiration, or had his heart's pulse patterned it?
He couldn't tell anymore.
He sat on the parapet, facing invisible distances, and wrote on air with finger:
The world inside reflects the world outside.
Like mirror facing mirror, they teach each other infinity.
His invisible script dissolved into dew.
14 – Heaven's SmileFor seven consecutive dawns, Cloudmarket's horizon displayed a phenomenon unseen in epochs:
a circular rainbow encircling the sun, faint as a dream and lasting only minutes.
Scholars called it Halo of Serene Qi.
Children danced under it, pretending it was Heaven's grin.
Dave watched once, whispering, "Balance charted the sky."
No thunder followed, no miracle—just warmth spreading quietly through the city.
15 – Closing SceneNight fell clear.
Beggars lit lamps along the alleys forming a long curving line up to his hut, unaware that from the air it drew a spiral.
Wind carried their laughter like the echo of waves far below another sea.
Dave sat before his door, broom across his knees, gazing at Cloudmarket sleeping under gentle rain.
Inside him, Lumara Valley glittered with its own dawn—the same hue, same rhythm.
Two worlds breathing each other's dreams; none knowing which was mirror, which was sky.
He whispered, "So be it. Let Heaven remember how to rest."
The mist thickened, folded over itself, and in that moment nothing separated creation from creator except the mercury‑thin silence of contentment.