Redleaf Town bustled beneath a slate-grey sky, the scent of boiled herbs and roasted chestnuts hanging thick over the market stalls. Autumn's fingers had painted the maple trees crimson, their leaves fluttering like the robes of dancing immortals. Traders barked out wares, children weaved through the crowds, and cultivators—rare but unmistakable—strode above it all in flowing robes, their auras making space around them like silent commands.
Li Yao moved quietly along the outer edge of the street; firewood bundle balanced on one shoulder. The ache in his body was deep, but different—cleaner. He could feel something strange stirring inside him. A thrum behind his ribs, like a golden thread plucked by unseen hands.
He'd spent the last two days testing it, breathing slow and deep, trying to feel the qi again.
It was real.
It was fragile.
But it was there.
He hadn't told anyone. He wouldn't—not yet. The world loved to tear down what it couldn't understand.
His stomach rumbled as he passed a dumpling stall. He paused, fingers brushing the edge of his coin pouch. Four coppers left. Enough for broth. But what if I find another scroll? he thought.
He walked on.
At the corner of the street, near the apothecary stalls, a quiet commotion was gathering.
A girl stood beneath a hanging tapestry of drying hawthorn roots. Her robes were pale sky-blue silk, hemmed in silver thread, far too fine for the dirt-stained street. Her long hair was tied in a scholar's knot, and her face—what little could be seen behind a gauzy half-veil—was as pale and still as winter frost.
But it was her eyes that made people pause.
They were silver.
Not grey, not cloudy, but silver—clear and luminous like moonlight on still water.
She held a long, thin root in one hand and was frowning at it as if it had personally offended her.
"This is dyed," she said to the old herb-merchant.
The merchant bowed repeatedly. "Honoured lady, I swear it's real Gilded Ginseng—see the golden core inside, just there—"
"It's been boiled in goldflower ink," she said, voice quiet but sharp. "And the spiral ridges are wrong. This is Painted Bitterroot. Worth a tenth of what you're charging."
Gasps fluttered from nearby onlookers. The merchant turned red.
Li Yao paused across the street. His newly awakened sense flickered—just a ripple, barely a whisper—but it danced when he looked at her.
Cultivator.
Not just that—something rarer. Her qi presence felt… restrained. Silent, but vast.
She turned her head slightly, silver eyes brushing the crowd like a blade. For a heartbeat, they passed over him—and paused.
Li Yao froze.
A strange sensation flooded him—like being seen not just with eyes, but with spirit.
Then her gaze moved on. Whatever she'd seen, she said nothing.
The girl placed a single spirit coin on the stall, took a smaller bag of herbs, and walked away.
People parted before her like leaves before wind.
He found her again, moments later, near the old shrine by the dried riverbed. She was kneeling beside the cracked basin, snow-petal blossoms drifting from a tree above and catching in her dark hair.
Li Yao hesitated at the edge of the shrine's steps.
"You're watching," she said without turning.
Her voice was calm. Not accusing.
He stiffened. "Apologies. I didn't mean to—"
"Your qi feels… wrong." She turned then, and her eyes narrowed slightly, not unkindly. "Crude. Raw. As if carved by fire."
Li Yao straightened. "I cultivated it myself."
Something flickered in her eyes. Amusement? Surprise?
"That much is obvious," she said, and then stood slowly. She was taller than he expected—slender, but not fragile. Her gaze was steady. "What method?"
He hesitated. What if she takes the scroll? What if she reports me to a sect?
But something in her posture—not kindness, exactly, but honesty—made him answer.
"Crimson Meridian Purge."
She blinked.
Then she laughed. Quiet, musical, but with the sound of someone honestly shocked.
"You're mad."
He flushed, jaw tightening. "Maybe. But I broke through."
"That technique's banned in three provinces. Nine in ten die trying it. Where did you even find it?"
"I bought it."
"For how much?"
"A year's wages."
She studied him.
"I don't sense a spirit root," she said softly. "And yet here you are. Breathing qi. Alive."
He said nothing.
She took something from her sleeve—a small, polished talisman carved like a falling lotus. Pale green jade, tied with a black thread.
"Take this," she said, offering it.
He looked at it, wary. "What is it?"
"A favour."
"I didn't do anything."
"You survived something you shouldn't have. That's rare. And interesting." She smiled slightly. "This may help you survive a little longer."
He stared at the talisman. Her aura pressed on him like moonlight on water, and yet… there was no killing intent. Only quiet weight.
He reached out and took it.
Their fingers brushed. A spark passed between them—something more than qi.
The wind shifted.
Her eyes met his again. "What's your name?"
"…Li Yao."
She inclined her head, then turned, stepping away into the drifting petals.
He stood alone for a long moment; the jade talisman warm in his hand.
That night, he sat in his hut, the talisman on the table before him.
He traced its edge, trying to sense anything. Qi flowed faintly inside it, subtle and complex.
She hadn't told him her name.
But he knew—knew—that their paths would cross again.
Something had changed. Not just within his body. Not just the birth of his qi.
The world itself felt… closer. More awake.
As if fate had taken its first step toward him.