In the quiet valley behind the dormitory, Sanhartha sat cross-legged, his breathing slow and even. The faint morning mist clung to the ground, weaving between stones and roots like drifting silk. His heart was calm, yet within that calm burned a faint hunger — the quiet thirst of one who seeks to perfect his foundation.
"Now," he murmured softly, "I can finally plan my training properly."
His eyes opened, clear as polished obsidian. "Whale glue," he said under his breath, "a treasure mistaken for indulgence. Others see its surface use; they ignore its marrow. Its essence strengthens vitality, nourishes bone and blood, refines endurance — a medicine the ignorant squander."
He rose, brushed the dust from his robe, and made his way toward Notting City's marketplace. The streets pulsed with life — vendors shouting, carts creaking, laughter mingling with the scent of steamed buns and burning incense. Amid the bustle, Sanhartha's calm presence felt like still water flowing through noise.
He stopped before a general store and asked politely, "Uncle, could you tell me where I might find a medicinal shop?"
The shopkeeper, surprised by the child's composure, blinked before answering, "Two lanes ahead, then right — Old Qian's Herbal Hall."
Sanhartha bowed slightly in thanks and continued on his way. The herbal shop was small, shadowed, and filled with the thick scent of dried roots. Behind the counter stood an elderly man with silver hair and sharp, wary eyes.
"Sir," Sanhartha greeted respectfully, "do you have whale glue for sale?"
The man tilted his head, suspicion flickering. "A boy asking for whale glue? Who sent you?"
"My uncle," Sanhartha replied calmly. "He asked that I inquire about its quality."
Understanding softened the man's gaze. "Ah, I see. The hundred-year glue costs ten gold coins; lesser ones range from two to eight. What will your 'uncle' take?"
"One hundred-year whale glue, and two lesser grades," Sanhartha said without hesitation.
Coins clinked softly as he handed over payment. The old shopkeeper's brows lifted slightly — such steady eyes, such measured tone. As Sanhartha turned to leave, the man murmured, "Strange child… his gaze carries years beyond his age."
When he returned to the academy, the sun had reached its zenith. After a brief meal, he carried his purchases back to the secluded valley. The mist had lifted, replaced by a deep afternoon stillness. He placed a small iron pot upon a flat stone and summoned his martial soul.
A golden-red flame unfurled in his palm — the Desire Heart Phoenix, its light neither fierce nor wild but deliberate, controlled. He fed a piece of whale glue into the pot, the flame licking its surface. Slowly, it melted into thick, translucent liquid that shimmered faintly like molten amber.
The air grew heavy with scent — the deep sweetness of the sea, touched with smoke and salt. Sanhartha's gaze stayed fixed. "A body untempered is a vessel unworthy of strength," he whispered. "Foundation before ascension — always."
He stirred the liquid, refining away impurities until its glow steadied into clarity. When it cooled, he drank it in measured sips. The essence flowed through him like molten gold through veins, radiating heat and pressure that seemed to test his every fiber.
Sweat gathered on his brow, but his expression remained calm. Pain, he knew, was proof of transformation. Within that heat, he felt marrow harden, sinew strengthen, and breath deepen. When at last he exhaled, steam rose faintly from his skin.
The night had already descended, pale moonlight spilling across the valley. He sat quietly for a long moment, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat slow and steady once more.
"The path to strength begins not with conquest," he murmured, "but with understanding."
He looked toward the horizon where faint stars flickered beyond drifting mist. The valley was silent except for the whisper of leaves and the soft pulse of his own soul power.
Tomorrow, he would refine again — until body, soul, and will moved as one.
Beneath the silver light, the young phoenix closed his eyes in meditation. The flame within him stirred faintly, patient and enduring — waiting for the dawn that would call it to rise.