Bao walked slowly between the small, humble huts of the monastery, the morning sun filtering weakly through the mist that hung low over the forest floor. Dew clung to the wooden walkways, and the scent of damp earth mingled with incense drifting from distant temples. His mind wandered, restless. The disturbance in his aura gnawed at him—if he were water, only time could smooth out the ripples. But for now, he had to seek guidance.
The white, papery flowers of the dove tree came into view, fluttering gently in the breeze. Their soft petals whispered promises of calm, and Bao's pulse steadied as he approached the small hut beneath its branches. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted it to knock. Before he could make contact, the door swung open. The young monk inside, serene but with an intensity in his eyes, gestured him inside.
The hut was dim, lit by a few flickering candles arranged around a single pillow placed before the monk's mat. Shadows danced across the walls, elongating the corners of the room. Bao stepped in cautiously, uncertainty prickling along his spine. He knelt on the pillow, feeling its worn fabric beneath his knees, and tried to ground himself.
The monk's voice was soft but deliberate. "I first learned of you through one of my students. He was struck by the contrast of your potential and the dimming of your aura. I, too, see both promise and doubt clouding your mind. Here, you may speak freely of what troubles your spirit. Nothing said shall leave this room."
Bao's chest tightened, memories pressing like a weight he could not lift. He exhaled shakily and began recounting his story, fumbling over words as he tried to untangle the dark knots of emotion and experience. His parents had abandoned him; every attempt at belonging ended with rejection. In his old town, he had tried to protect children and community alike, only to be treated like a plague. He had learned to survive through cunning and stealth, turning to crime when it became the only means to endure.
His voice faltered as he continued. His adoptive parents, those he had believed would save him, were monstrous—attempting to kill him, and when they failed, casting him back into the streets. Bao spoke of betrayal, of fear and hatred that had grown like weeds in his heart, strangling trust and hope. Each memory pressed down on him like stones in his chest; he could feel the ache of loneliness in every word.
The young master listened in quiet intensity, eyes never leaving Bao's pale, haunted face. When Bao's voice trailed into silence, the monk spoke. "I acknowledge your sorrow. You have carried a great weight. There are no exercises or spells to erase it—only acceptance and patient cultivation."
Bao's lip trembled. "Why are you so sure my fate is sealed?"
"Some succumb to lies; others find truth. Your pain is genuine, and your vision is clear. But clarity is not weakness—it is a guide."
"And my aura?" Bao asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Through training, meditation, and persistence, it will flourish once more," the monk replied. They spoke further of methods, of discipline and focus, and Bao left, mind heavy but resolute, turning over each lesson. No matter the trials, he would confront the fear gnawing at him.
In Xidi, life moved with the steady rhythm of survival and care. Villagers repaired roofs, swept the streets, and worked to beautify their homes. A man hammered shingles into place while another gathered compost from scraps. A group of older men reminisced about the grand festivals of Shinelin, planning the construction of a riverside kiln to fire bricks for the town's main road, eager to lift Xidi from muddiness into order and pride.
Goichi leaned over the bar, lifting a stoneware cup of herbed wine. He grinned, satisfaction twisting his features. "You know, I'm lucky. All those things I complained about—they're gone. Life is easier now. Cooking, cleaning, even space… it's all mine."
The barkeep regarded him with dry indifference, eyes tired.
A faint tremor ran along the ground, rattling cups and bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Goichi paused, squinting, then shrugged and resumed his boast.
Suddenly, the tremor intensified violently. Bottles toppled, smashing on the floor. Goichi spilled his wine, abandoned the cup, and stumbled outside. Screams cut through the air as villagers scrambled for safety, some helping the fallen. Goichi pressed himself against a wall, searching for shelter.
Then came a roar—not from any beast he had known, but from the mountain itself. Birds erupted into flight, flocks filling the sky in panicked spirals. Goichi covered his ears as his face turned toward Mt. Atsui, looming above the town. Dark clouds belched from its peak, twisting in thick, black plumes against the morning sky. Ash drifted down like snow, scenting the air with sulfur and smoke.
His heart pounded in his chest as the eruption rumbled across the valley. Even as terror clawed at him, a twisted thrill ran through Goichi—he was alive, powerful, invincible. Yet beneath it, an undercurrent of dread slithered: the mountain was awakening, and with it, forces he could not control.
The earth shook again. Screams and the smell of scorched timber and soil filled the air. Xidi's streets became rivers of chaos as villagers fled, carrying what belongings they could, while Goichi stared, glassy-eyed, at the unstoppable fury cascading from the mountain's heart.