The world of Herb Peak was a cage of routine, but for Ye Xingliu, the nights were a key. After the final bell tolled and the last snoring disciple settled into dreams of glory, he would slip from his cot, a shadow among shadows, and make for his secret cliff.
Tonight, the air was crisp, the sky a velvet tapestry embroidered with a billion diamond points. The faint, silver glow of the buried star-vein below pulsed in time with his own heartbeat, a secret shared between the earth and the sky.
He sat cross-legged at the cliff's edge, the cracked compass warm in his lap. Little Comet, usually a bundle of effervescent energy, was quiet, its light a soft, thoughtful pulse as it hovered before him.
"Boss," it began, its tiny bell-voice unusually solemn. "There's something I gotta tell you."
Ye Xingliu opened his eyes. The silver in his own seemed to capture the starlight. "You're not really a thumb-sized talking bug, are you?"
"Hey! I'm a magnificent Comet Spirit!" it chirped, indignant for a moment before its light dimmed again. "But... no. Not exactly." It zipped closer, until its tiny, luminous form was all he could see. "I'm a fragment. A memory. A spark left behind."
"Left behind by who?"
"The one who made the compass," Little Comet whispered, as if saying the words too loud might summon a ghost. "The true master. The one who walked the road before you. He... he ascended. Or fell. Or just kept walking. I don't know. I was sleeping. But the compass chose you. And when you asked 'why?' with enough pain in your heart to wake the dead, it woke me."
Ye Xingliu stared at the tiny spirit, this companion he had collected as casually as a souvenir. Its existence was tied to a mystery far greater than he had imagined.
"The compass is a map," Little Comet continued, its light flickering over the jade disc. "But it's also a key. And I... I'm the lockpick. But I'm weak. So, so weak. A flicker of what I should be."
"What do you need?" Ye Xingliu asked, his voice soft. The question was simple, direct. The same question he would ask a traveler with an empty canteen.
Little Comet's light brightened with a surge of hope. "Starlight. Not just the reflected kind from up there," it said, zipping upwards towards the celestial dome. "The real stuff. The raw, wild, falling kind. The energy of comets, of celestial events. The stuff you sipped from the vein below. It's... it's my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The more I eat, the more I remember. The more I can help you open the doors the compass points to."
Ye Xingliu looked from the hopeful little spirit to the infinite road of stars above. A wanderer's purpose was not just to walk, but to help fellow travelers. That was the camaraderie Old Huo had hinted at, the bond he already felt with Feng Shui'er.
He reached out, and Little Comet landed on his extended finger, its warmth a tiny sun against his skin.
"Then we'll find you a feast," Ye Xingliu promised, his vow as solid as the mountain beneath him. "We'll chase every falling star in the sky. We'll drink from every hidden vein in the earth. Your hunger is my hunger now."
Little Comet glowed so brightly it illuminated the entire cliff face for a single, glorious second. "I knew I picked the right wanderer!"
With the pact sealed, Ye Xingliu began his true nightly routine. He closed his eyes again, but this time, he wasn't just listening to the rhythms of the world. He was reaching for them. He drew in the faint, ambient starlight from the sky, a gentle, diffuse energy that cooled his spirit. At the same time, he called upon the single, strong thread of power from the star-vein below, a vibrant, thrumming cord that warmed his core. He sat at the confluence of two rivers of light, his body the vessel where heaven and earth met.
After an hour of this, his body humming with power, he stood. The Compass read Mortal Awakening – 5%, but it felt more solid now, less like a borrowed thread and more like a woven part of him.
He took the stance Old Huo had taught him. Laughing Star.
But he didn't punch the bamboo. He punched the air.
His fist shot forward, tracing that slight, joyful curve. There was no impact, only the whisper of his sleeve cutting through the night. But in his mind's eye, he was not on a cliff. He was racing alongside a falling star, his fist leading the way.
One.
Ten.
One hundred.
He moved through the darkness, a solitary dancer under the cosmos. Each punch was a promise—to the memory of his parents, to the strange teacher in the forest, to the elemental girl in the sect, and to the tiny, hungry star-spirit who was his guide.
He didn't stop at a hundred, or two hundred. He had promised himself five hundred. The energy within him fueled his muscles, making the impossible mundane. Sweat gleamed on his brow, but it was the sweat of exertion, not agony. His form grew more precise, the arc of his fist more natural, more chaotic, more true.
On the five-hundredth punch, his body fell into a perfect, flowing rhythm. His fist lashed out, and this time, the air itself tinged. A faint, clear, bell-like chime, unmistakable and real, hung in the silent air for a heartbeat before the night swallowed it.
Ye Xingliu stood panting, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. He wasn't just training. He was keeping his promises. And for the wanderer, that was the only currency that truly mattered.