The sky had not broken in days.
Clouds loomed above Green Pine Village like bruises that never burst, purple-grey and pulsing with lightless storms. Thunder sometimes growled across the horizon like an old beast half-forgotten by the heavens, but never once did the rain fall. It was as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Li Yao could feel it. In the way the birds no longer sang at dawn. In the sharp, wrong quiet of the forest. Even the insects seemed hesitant, starting up only to fall silent again as if scolded by something unseen.
He moved through his morning forms alone, deep within the pines.
Rooted stance. Rotating hips. Breath drawn low into the dantian, then carried upward like water up the spine. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. His muscles burned with a satisfying ache—not the collapse of overwork, but the steady pressure of transformation.
The Stone Root Method was working.
Slowly. Roughly. But undeniably.
No one had taught him. No talismans, no sect scrolls. Just the body, the breath, the mountain. Just observation and sheer, relentless repetition. Each morning he traced the path again, not because he hoped for sudden revelation, but because he knew stone only yields to patient hands.
And still, he told no one.
Not even Uncle Wei.
The villagers thought he was training to fight off beasts. They saw a boy growing stronger and assumed it was hunger, or stubbornness, or shame over being born without roots.
They didn't know about the qi, or how it flowed just beneath his skin like slow coals beginning to burn.
They didn't need to.
So when Uncle Wei came crashing through the underbrush that morning, muttering curses under his breath and looking ten years older than usual, Li Yao was already adjusting his breath, already masking the quiet hum inside his chest.
"You're up early," Wei said without preamble.
"I could say the same," Li Yao replied.
Wei snorted. "Didn't sleep."
He dropped a sack of foraged mushrooms and bark strips onto a flat rock, straightened with a grimace, and rubbed at the small of his back.
"I don't like what the forest is doing," he said after a moment. "Not just the animals. The trees, too. They're... listening."
Li Yao wiped sweat from his brow, but said nothing.
Wei looked at him more closely. "You've changed. Your step. The way you hold yourself."
Li Yao didn't answer. Not directly.
Wei nodded to himself as if confirming something unspoken. "You're not like the others. Never were. But if you're doing something dangerous out here, just know... the forest remembers more than you think."
Li Yao's gaze didn't flinch, but he felt the words strike somewhere deep. He didn't know if Wei suspected the truth or was simply speaking from instinct. But there was no accusation in his voice. Only a warning, blunt and rooted in care.
"I saw tracks this morning," Wei continued, rubbing his neck. "Deeper than a wild boar's. Clawed. Heavy. The earth sagged where it walked."
Li Yao exhaled slowly. "South side?"
Wei gave a quick nod.
"That's close."
"Closer than anything like that should ever come."
The silence between them was heavy, filled not with awkwardness but with understanding. The world was shifting, and they could both feel it—just in different ways.
Wei turned away, hands resting on his hips, staring into the pines like he could see through them.
"I've seen signs before. Years back, before you were old enough to remember. The land gets tense. The wind forgets how to move. Then the beasts start changing. One by one. Til something worse comes through."
"Have you ever fought one?" Li Yao asked.
Wei didn't turn. "No. And I don't plan to. I kill to eat, not to dance with nightmares."
He let the silence stretch for a breath or two before saying, "You need a proper weapon."
Li Yao looked down at his hands. They were calloused, ringed with dirt, joints swollen from overuse. But strong. They'd served him so far.
"I don't have coin for a proper blade."
"You won't need coin," Wei said, glancing over. "There's a man."
Li Yao raised an eyebrow.
"Lives past the old riverstones," Wei said. "Used to be a shrine there, before the war took it. Most people think it's abandoned."
"And it isn't?"
"No. A blacksmith lives there now. Or something like one. Hermit, maybe. Forger of strange things. I don't know what he used to be, but he knows how to shape metal that doesn't break."
"Why haven't I heard of him?"
Wei gave a tired grin. "Because I never told you. And most folk never come back to tell tales. But he owes me—and still remembers."
Li Yao was quiet for a moment, considering. "Would he help me?"
"Maybe. If he sees something worth helping."
They both looked to the trees again.
The morning light had risen, but the forest hadn't brightened with it. Shadows clung in places they shouldn't. The birds hadn't returned.
Li Yao's chest tightened slightly.
"There's something stirring," he said. "I can feel it. Like something deep in the soil is waking up."
Wei nodded. "Then it's time you had steel."
Li Yao didn't answer, but the decision was already blooming in his chest like a bud cracking open.
If the pines were growing quiet, if the beasts were shifting, if even the old hunter had begun to speak of dreams and forgotten names—then waiting was no longer wise.
The Stone Root Method had carried him this far. But methods alone did not stop claws. Or fire.
He looked to the south, where the pines grew oldest and the path curved toward the hills. His breath slowed. A plan was forming. A direction. A purpose with weight.
And for the first time, he felt not just ready to act—
But willing.