The morning Chen left, the sky was clear.
No ceremony. No banners. Just a packed satchel, a water skin, and the jade token warm at his belt.
His mother hugged him last.
"You'll write?" she asked, voice steady—though her hands trembled.
"Every week," he promised.
She pressed something into his palm: a small cloth pouch, heavy with seeds.
"Spirit Ginseng," she said. "From our best row. Plant them where you rest. So… a piece of home grows with you."
He tucked it away. "I will."
Yan clapped him on the back—hard enough to rattle his ribs. "Don't let those mountain snobs forget your name."
"I won't," Chen said. "But I'll let my fists do the talking."
Yan grinned. "Good."
Then—Xiao.
She didn't cry. Just held out the Stellar Soul Lantern.
"You'll need this more than I will," she said. "The mountains are old. Some shadows… don't like light."
He shook his head.
"Keep practicing," he said. "When I come back, I want to see a frost phoenix."
She smiled. "Only if you promise to dodge it."
He laughed. The sound felt light. Free.
Then—his father.
Lu Zhong stood straight, no trace of pain in his posture. He held out a simple wooden flute—carved from ginkgo, worn smooth by years of use.
"My father gave this to me," he said. "Said music settles the Qi better than any pill." He met Chen's eyes. "Play it when the path feels long. It'll remind you—you're never truly alone."
Chen accepted it. Nodded.
No grand words. Just a look. A lifetime of love, packed into silence.
Then Chen turned—toward the city gate.
Zhao Lei waited there, leaning against the stone arch, arms crossed.
"Took you long enough," he said.
"You walked here from the Pill Hall?" Chen asked.
"Ran," Zhao Lei said, falling into step beside him. "Figured you'd need someone to carry your herbs."
They walked in silence for a while.
Then Zhao Lei said, quiet: "My father asked why I chose Cloudveil Peak. Not the Pill Hall's branch."
Chen glanced at him. "What did you say?"
"I told him…" Zhao Lei smiled faintly. "'Some teachers don't lecture. They listen.'"
Chen didn't answer. Just bumped his shoulder.
They passed the South Gate.
Old man He stood watch, knee straight, posture proud.
He nodded as they passed. "Safe travels, boys."
Chen paused. Reached into his satchel.
Pulled out one of his mother's ginseng seeds.
"Plant this by your gatepost," he said, pressing it into He's hand. "Water it with rainwater. It'll grow strong."
He Wenguang looked at the seed—then at Chen.
"Aye," he said, voice rough. "I'll name it Snail."
Chen laughed. Walked on.
The road to the Azure Serpent Sect wound through the Jadefang Mountains—a jagged spine of peaks, cloud-wrapped and ancient.
No carriages. No spirit beasts.
Just feet on stone.
For three days, they climbed.
Morning mists clung to the path like ghosts.
Noon sun baked the rocks white-hot.
Nights were sharp with cold, stars so close they seemed to hum.
They didn't speak much.
Zhao Lei practiced Thunderclap Palm against boulders—each strike cleaner, quieter, truer.
Chen walked, observing: the way moss grew thickest on north-facing stones, how certain birds called only at dawn, how the wind shifted before rain.
On the third evening, rain came—sudden, heavy.
They sheltered under a cliff overhang, shivering.
Zhao Lei cursed, wringing water from his tunic. "Should've brought a talisman."
Chen sat cross-legged, pulled out his father's flute.
He didn't play a song. Just one note—low, steady, warm.
The sound curled through the damp air.
And the rain… slowed.
Not stopped. Just gentled—like the world had taken a breath.
Zhao Lei stared. "How?"
"Qi doesn't just move in fists," Chen said, lowering the flute. "It moves in breath. In sound. In stillness."
He looked out at the mist-shrouded peaks.
"Cloudveil Peak isn't named for the clouds," he murmured. "It's named for the veil between what is… and what could be."
Zhao Lei was quiet a long time.
Then: "You're going to be terrifying, aren't you?"
Chen smiled. "Only to those who hoard."
At dawn on the fourth day, they saw it.
A mountain—taller than the rest, wreathed in silver mist.
And on its summit, a cluster of pavilions, bridges, and training grounds, all carved from pale jade and dark pine.
Cloudveil Peak.
Zhao Lei exhaled. "Home for the next… however long it takes."
They climbed the final path—a narrow stone stair, worn smooth by centuries of feet.
Halfway up, Chen paused.
A small clearing. A single, gnarled tree—gnarled, half-dead, roots gripping bare rock.
He knelt.
Dug a small hole.
Planted one of his mother's ginseng seeds.
Poured a few drops of his water skin over it.
"Grow," he whispered.
Then—a soft chime.
The jade scroll glowed:
[DAILY SIGN-IN AVAILABLE]
Streak: Day 9
Rewards:
🔸 1 × Spirit Stone (Mid)
🔸 Technique: Mountain Breath (Qi Gathering Stage 3 — Stability)
🔸 Herb: Veilbloom (Rare, enhances perception)
He chose Veilbloom.
A delicate white flower appeared in his hand, petals like folded mist.
He didn't keep it.
He placed it gently at the base of the ginseng seed.
"Let it see clearly," he murmured.
The flower's glow deepened—just for a moment.
Then faded.
The System added:
"…You're turning this whole mountain into a garden. Just so you know."
Chen stood.
Walked on.
At the peak's gate, two disciples waited—robes silver and green, faces calm, eyes sharp.
"Names," the taller one said.
"Zhao Lei. Greenpine City."
"Lu Chen. Greenpine City."
The disciple's gaze lingered on Chen. Not suspicion. Recognition.
"You're the one who floated the Stone of a Thousand Grains."
Chen nodded.
The disciple stepped aside. "Welcome to Cloudveil. Your quarters are prepared."
They entered.
Pavilions arched over koi ponds. Bridges curved over misty ravines. Disciples moved with quiet purpose—sweeping paths, tending gardens, sparring in silent harmony.
No shouting. No arrogance.
Just flow.
Their guide led them to a small courtyard—two rooms, a shared meditation space, a view of the eastern peaks.
"Yours," he said. "Settle in. Orientation at dusk."
He left.
Zhao Lei dropped his pack. "Not bad."
Chen stepped onto the balcony.
The wind here was different—clean, sharp, alive.
He looked east.
The rust-red glimmer was gone.
In its place—a single, bright star.
New.
Unblinking.
The System didn't comment.
But Chen knew.
It wasn't gone.
It had arrived.
That evening, at orientation, they gathered in the Hall of Whispering Pines.
A woman stood at the front—tall, silver-haired, eyes like mountain lakes.
Elder Mo Yan—no relation to the Mo Yan who'd passed the trials. This was the Senior Mo Yan. Master of Cloudveil Peak.
"Welcome," she said, voice like wind through bamboo. "You are not here to become strong."
A pause.
"You are here to become true."
She raised a hand.
Above her, a single drop of water hovered.
"Strength breaks," she said. "Truth… endures."
The drop fell.
It didn't splash.
It sank—into the stone floor—as if the world had opened just for it.
"Your first lesson begins tomorrow," she said. "Dawn. The Mirror Pool."
She turned to leave.
Then paused.
Looked directly at Chen.
"Lu Chen."
He stepped forward.
She studied him—not his Qi, not his badge.
His hands.
"You gave something today," she said. "A seed. A flower. A moment of care."
He didn't deny it.
She smiled—small, knowing.
"The mountain remembers."
Then she was gone.
Zhao Lei whistled low. "She saw that?"
Chen looked at his hands.
Still calloused. Still ordinary.
But now… they carried the weight of a ginseng seed.
The light of a Veilbloom.
The silence of a falling drop.
The System chimed—soft, final:
[DAILY SIGN-IN: COMPLETE]
Streak: 9 days
Next Reward: Day 10 — ???.
P.S. Sleep well. Tomorrow… you meet the Mirror.
Chen stepped onto the balcony one last time.
The new star burned bright in the east.
He lifted his father's flute.
Played one note.
And far below, in the clearing, a single green shoot pushed through the soil—tiny, defiant, glowing faintly white.
The path had begun.
Not with a roar.
But with a breath.