The snow had grown thinner. Not melted—but gentler, as though the heavens themselves chose to watch in silence.
Kell remained seated within the first circle. His back was straight, but not tense. His breath slow, but not forced. Around him, the twelve circles still glowed faintly with the memory of Fuzi's hand.
Above them, the twisted pine whispered in the wind.
Fuzi stood there for a long while, his eyes not on Kell, but on something far beyond the mountains. The horizon where sky kissed nothingness. As if time itself were waiting for him to remember.
Then, softly, he turned.
"You asked," Fuzi said, "how one begins the path of cultivation within the Twelve Pillars."
Kell nodded. He remained seated, unmoving—an instinctive stillness, like a disciple before a temple bell.
Fuzi took a breath, slow and calm.
"You begin not by rising upward, but by going downward," he said. "You do not climb the heavens. You return to the ground. And through the ground, you remember the laws that shaped your bones."
He knelt beside the first circle, running his finger once more through its center.
"There is no qi to gather here. No aura to refine. You must learn to belong before you can transform."
He looked at Kell, and something softened in his gaze.
"The first steps are not about strength. They are about surrender."
Kell frowned, thoughtful. "Surrender… to what?"
"To stillness," Fuzi replied. "To silence. To the memory of being human—before Dao, before destiny."
He stood, stepping backward.
"You must eat. Sleep. Bleed. You must feel your lungs burn, your limbs ache. You must know hunger, and not cure it with pills. You must walk until your feet split and the wind cuts your lips raw—and then still, listen. Because the Foundation Node is not a technique. It is a return."
Fuzi's voice carried the weight of ages now. Not harsh. Not sorrowful. But clear.
"I will not be with you for what comes next," he said.
Kell's head snapped up. "You're leaving?"
Fuzi gave a soft nod. "The Immortal God Realm calls. Duties left untended too long. Old debts. Older storms."
Kell stood slowly. The snow no longer clung to his robes. He looked into Fuzi's eyes—not as a boy to a master, but as a soul seeking its guide in a world of mirrors.
"Will I see you again?"
Fuzi's smile was small, but eternal.
"If your path remains true, then yes. When you set foot in the Immortal God Realm—when your soul breaks through the veil between stars and silence—I will know."
Kell's breath caught.
"I will come to you," Fuzi said. "Not as your master. But as one who waited."
He reached forward and gently touched Kell's chest, right above the heart.
"When you stand before that world, you'll see no gates. No throne. Only silence. And in that silence, remember this: you belong—not because you are strong, but because you listened."
He stepped back. Snow stirred around his boots but did not touch him.
"I leave no scrolls. No maps. Only circles in the snow, and a truth buried in your marrow."
Kell bowed deeply, the gesture not forced, but flowing from within.
"Thank you, Master."
Fuzi inclined his head. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "There are no shortcuts on this path, Kell. No applause. Only skyless nights, and footsteps."
And with that, he turned.
No light took him. No wind stirred. He simply walked—into the snow, into the mountain's spine—until even his shadow forgot to follow.
Kell stood alone.
But the snow no longer felt empty. The air no longer pressed.
He looked down at the first circle again. And for the first time, he saw not snow…
…but a beginning.