The wind was quiet with intent, and the sun looked down with indifference, washing the city, the hill, and the shrine with its gold-stained hues. The morning had the kind of stillness that demanded reverence — like even the cicadas were holding their breath to listen.
I sat cross-legged on the old stone patio, the roughness of it biting faintly at my ankles. My palms rested on my knees, open, fingers relaxed, breathing in and out to calm my mind, focus my energy, and — as Miss Dōngzhì would say — invite the flow of qi into my being.
So far, the only thing I'd invited was a cramp in my leg.
"Clear your mind of all thought," her voice drifted from behind me, calm but edged with that kind of patience teachers use right before they start doubting their career choice. "Focus your intention."
"I don't think this is working," I said after what felt like a small eternity.
"No rain, no flowers," she replied simply — the kind of proverb that sounds wise but mostly just makes you feel like you're the rain.
There was a pause before she spoke again. "Alright, let's try once more. Visualize the flow of qi within your body. Remember, qi is your energy — so try to feel it. Let it breathe through you."
I closed my eyes, inhaled… exhaled… waited.
Nothing. Not even a tickle.
After a while, I cracked one eye open. "Still nothing."
Dōngzhì sighed — not annoyed, but resigned, like she'd seen this play out before. "We'll revisit this later. Let's get you a weapon."
Now that got my attention. "Ah! Sweet."
I tried to hop up, but my legs were asleep. They wobbled like newborn deer legs and betrayed me immediately.
Dōngzhì didn't even blink. "Do you have any combat experience?"
"Hmm… nope. None."
"I see," she said, and the way she said it made me feel like I'd just confessed to never having used a spoon.
She led me to a part of the shrine I hadn't seen before — an inner wing draped in quiet shadow and the smell of oiled wood and metal. Racks lined the walls, each covered with heavy cloths, shapes beneath them whispering of danger and history.
"First," she said, "let's see if you have any fighting potential that can be trained into something useful."
Twenty minutes later, I was sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, hair sticking to my face, drenched in enough sweat to water the courtyard garden.
"So," she said calmly, "martial arts will not be for you. Not without years of training."
I turned my head toward her, groaning, but she was already walking toward one of the shrouded racks. I could barely breathe, but the sound of metal being uncovered was enough to stir something in me — curiosity, awe… maybe stupidity.
"Blades," I whispered reverently as she lifted the cloth. The sight stole the air right out of my lungs — swords and daggers of every shape and age gleamed softly in the dim light. Some curved like smiles; others were straight and solemn, their hilts wrapped in worn silk or leather.
I reached out instinctively — smack!
She slapped my hand away without hesitation. "No touching."
"Ouchie!" I rubbed the sore spot, pouting. "Rude."
"Curiosity kills more than cats," she said, tone unbothered as she picked through the weapons. "Alright. Let's start with something simple."
Moments later, she turned and handed me a short blade — a tantō. It gleamed like it had something to prove.
I stared at it, then at her. "This… this is a knife."
She arched an elegant brow. "It's a weapon."
"It's barely a weapon! It's a kitchen tool with attitude!"
She smirked slightly, tilting her head. "Anymore, and you'd be a danger to yourself rather than your opponent." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the growing bump on my forehead — the spoils of our earlier "training."
"Wow, Miss Victoria," she said, tone teasing now. "Even pacifists must learn that rejecting violence isn't the same as being incapable of it."
"This is not my fault," I said defensively. "Give me a gun and you'll see what I can do."
Her eyebrow lifted higher. "Do you know why guns are illegal here?"
"…Because people are scared?"
"Because if everyone and people had one," she said smoothly, "peace would die faster than your stance did."
I frowned at the tantō. It gleamed smugly at me. "Still, this feels like a participation award."
Her smirk deepened, but she didn't answer.
I glanced around the racks again, desperate. "What about that ring-blade thing? Or the metal fan? Or the curved one — the dao, right? Or at least a katana? You have to let me try a katana."
"You don't need a sword to be dangerous," she said simply, turning away. "But you do need discipline."
That shut me up for a second.
She gestured lazily at my tantō. "For now, that is enough."
I sighed dramatically. "Fine. But if I die, it's on your conscience."
"That," she said, "assumes you'd make it into a fight to begin with."
I squinted. "That was uncalled for."
"Go take a bath," she said, completely ignoring me now. "It's late enough. We'll have lunch after."
I perked up a bit. "What's for lunch?"
"Khao Soi and San-jeok," she said, as if that explained everything.
"Sounds… good!" I said cheerfully, despite having no idea what those were. But if Dōngzhì was making it, it was bound to be divine.
She gave a faint smile, soft but knowing. "Good. You'll need your strength."
I didn't ask why — I was too tired to care.
As I sank back onto the floor, I noticed her again — not a drop of sweat, not a hair out of place. Her movements were so quiet that even the air seemed to flow around her instead of against her.
"As cool as a cucumber," I murmured.
The wind sighed softly through the open doors, brushing against the paper lanterns and rustling the trees outside. The sunlight dimmed behind a branch, scattering gold into shade.
I lay there, surrounded by silence and the faint hum of the shrine, breathing slowly. For a moment, the stillness didn't feel empty anymore. It felt full — like the pause between heartbeats.
Maybe that was qi. Maybe not.
Either way, I could live with it.
---