Yan Xuan arrived at Blackstone Village on a cart that did not belong to him.
The cart was old, its wooden boards cracked and patched unevenly, pulled by a mule that limped slightly on its left hind leg. Yan Xuan sat at the back, legs dangling, hands folded loosely in his lap. He did not speak to the man driving, and the man did not speak to him.
They had no reason to.
The man had been paid to transport a child from the outer road to the village.
Yan Xuan had been told this was where the cart would stop.
That was all.
Blackstone Village lay between low hills and a narrow river, too small to matter to sects, too poor to attract bandits regularly. Smoke rose from clay chimneys. Chickens scattered as the cart rolled through. A few villagers glanced up, saw nothing unusual, and went back to their work.
Children arrived like this sometimes.
Orphans. Runaways. Debts paid in flesh.
Yan Xuan did not know which one he was.
He only knew that the house he had lived in before was gone, and that the road behind him no longer mattered.
The cart stopped near the village square.
"This is it," the man said, already reaching for the reins to turn around.
Yan Xuan slid down from the cart. His feet touched the ground lightly.
He did not thank the man.
Not out of rudeness — gratitude implied attachment, and attachment implied expectation. He had learned, even at ten years old, that expectations were fragile things.
The cart left. Dust settled.
Yan Xuan stood still.
Around him, life continued. A woman scolded her son for dropping a basket. Two men argued quietly over grain prices. Somewhere, metal rang against stone in steady rhythm.
No one came to greet him.
After a moment, he walked.
The place that took him in was not a home, but it was warm.
An old storehouse near the river had been converted into communal lodging for children without families. Straw mats lined the floor. A clay stove sat in the corner. A man with tired eyes recorded his name on a wooden tablet and pointed him toward an empty space.
"Food is twice a day," the man said. "Work if you can. Don't steal."
Yan Xuan nodded.
That night, lying on unfamiliar straw, he did not cry.
Crying required belief that someone might respond.
Instead, he listened.
The river outside moved constantly, water striking stone with soft persistence. Wind slipped through cracks in the walls. Somewhere, someone coughed in their sleep.
Everything had a rhythm.
Yan Xuan closed his eyes and followed it.
Three days later, he learned why the river mattered.
A man arrived in the village wearing plain gray robes, unmarked and unadorned. He was not announced. He did not carry himself like someone important. But people noticed him anyway.
He walked slowly, stopping near the riverbank.
Children gathered first. Then adults.
The man looked at them without warmth or disdain.
"Those who wish to try," he said, "step into the water."
That was all.
No mention of cultivation.
No promises of power.
No explanation of risk.
Most people hesitated.
Yan Xuan did not.
He stepped forward because he had nothing to lose by being cold, and nothing to gain by staying dry.
The water swallowed his ankles, then his calves. The cold bit hard, sharper than he expected. His breath stuttered.
He stayed.
Around him, others stepped in and out, laughing nervously or swearing. Some lasted moments. Some lasted longer.
Yan Xuan focused on standing.
Not bravely. Not stubbornly.
Just… standing.
When the shaking became unbearable, he noticed that it followed a pattern. When he relaxed one muscle, another compensated. When he adjusted his balance slightly, the pressure changed.
The pain did not lessen.
But it stopped surprising him.
Time passed.
"Enough," the gray-robed man said eventually.
Yan Xuan stepped out of the river, legs weak, mind strangely clear.
The man's eyes rested on him for half a breath longer than the others.
"You," the man said. "Come tomorrow."
Yan Xuan nodded once.
That night, lying on straw again, he realized something small and unsettling:
Standing in the river had not made him feel stronger.
It had made the world feel simpler.
Cause.
Effect.
Adjustment.
He did not know what cultivation was.
He did not know what paths existed beyond the hills.
He did not know that the world would one day demand everything from him.
He only knew this:
Cold could be endured.
Pain could be analyzed.
And if something could be understood, it could be controlled.
Outside, the river flowed on, indifferent.