---
The dawn light through the loft's slats was a slow, revealing tide, illuminating dust motes that hung like suspended doubt in the air. Han Li woke to a familiar silence downstairs, but this morning it held a different texture. It was not the quiet of rest, but the tense, hollow absence of routine—the missing scrape of the measuring scoop against the bottom of the grain jar.
He descended the ladder, the worn wood smooth under his calloused feet. His aunt stood before the open storage jar, her back to him, her posture a silent sculpture of weary resignation. Her shoulders were not slumped in defeat, but held in a rigid line, as if bearing the invisible weight of the jar's emptiness.
"There is nothing to prepare," she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual morning friction. She did not turn. "Your uncle left early. He took five of the roots."
Han Li nodded, though she couldn't see. The ginseng roots were fortune, but not yet food. They were potential, abstract and suspended in anxious hours. He moved to the hearth, added a few sticks to the dormant ashes, and struck the flint. The small, blooming flame was the only action either could muster. He joined her in the quiet vigil, the two of them listening to the village wake while their own home remained a still-life of waiting.
---
Two hours later, the door creaked open with deliberate slowness. Uncle slipped inside like a shadow, his movements furtive and quick. A heavy, lumpy cloth sack was slung over his shoulder. He turned and barred the wooden door, the thick beam falling into place with a solid thunk. Only then did he let out a long, relieved sigh that seemed to drain the tension from the walls.
Auntie's worry melted into sharp curiosity. "Well?" she whispered.
Uncle's answer was his grin—a wide, cracking expression that broke through the weariness on his face. He heaved the sack onto the table with a substantial thud. The contents clinked and rustled with promise.
With ceremony, he began to unpack.
First, fine wheat flour, pale and soft. Next, salted pork, fat glistening like amber. Then, clean white salt—a luxury they used by the pinch.
Han Li's eyes widened. A bright, warm feeling surged in his chest. It was a physical reaction to scarcity ending. A genuine smile broke across his face.
"I sold five roots," Uncle explained, voice low but thrumming. "One hundred silver taels." He let the number hang. "I bought these for five. The rest is hidden."
Auntie's hands flew to the flour. "One hundred taels…" she breathed. Then her eyes narrowed. "You spend like water! Five taels! Li'er faced danger for these!"
Uncle's grin deepened. He reached deeper. "Don't scold yet." He pulled out two packages. He handed one to Han Li, one to his wife. "For you, a proper dress. And for our Li'er…"
Han Li's fingers fumbled with the twine.
Inside lay a robe.
Not coarse hemp. Smooth cotton. A deep, resilient green—the color of new pine needles. A scholar's robe.
"Uncle…" Han Li's voice was strained. "This is too much."
"I did," Uncle said, voice thick. "You are not a beggar. Our circumstances have changed."
Han Li shed his patched tunic. The air was cool on his skin. He slipped into the green robe.
The fabric whispered. Cool. Firm. It fit perfectly.
He saw the change in his aunt's eyes—worry softening into wonder. The gaunt boy was gone. A young man stood there.
He ran his fingers down the seams, then carefully removed it. "Too fine for daily wear. I'll save it."
"This is not all," Uncle said, expression turning serious. "A physician comes to the village. Tomorrow. Some whisper he's an immortal."
"An immortal?" Han Li's skepticism was immediate defense.
"Three centuries old, they say. His medicine knits bones without scars. He comes to select his final disciple."
Auntie gasped. "Why here?"
"To find an heir." Uncle's gaze locked on Han Li. "The chosen one learns his arts. Gets his inheritance. If the disciple is a boy… he marries the physician's daughter."
Han Li waved a hand. "Market fantasies."
"Here's the truth." Uncle leaned in. "The chosen family gets one hundred taels. A betrothal gift. Just for the chance."
"Another hundred?" Auntie breathed.
Han Li fell silent. The room tilted.
The arithmetic of destiny unfolded. If selected… Another hundred taels. A new house. A field. No hunger for decades. His aunt and uncle at ease.
"There's more," Uncle whispered. "The disciple will be taught to cultivate. To walk the immortal path."
Cultivate.
The word landed like a temple bell. A key. A path into the deeper world he'd glimpsed. No longer rumor. Destination.
"Li'er is clever with herbs," Auntie said, voice thick with hope. "Now is his time."
"Tomorrow, we go to the square," Uncle said.
---
The celebratory meal was quiet. Golden flatbread from new flour. Salted pork. Each bite rich.
Yet restlessness grew in Han Li. The house energy was too compressed. Too much hope, too much fear.
"I'll see Old Zhang myself," he announced, standing.
He left the green robe folded. Put on his old tunic. The contrast was sharp—a line between two lives.
Dusk softened the village. Smoke ribboned into lavender sky. As Han Li walked, a shadow blocked his path.
Wang Chan stood there. Son of the wealthiest farmer. Arms crossed over a well-fed chest.
"The pale boy," he sneered. "Come to beg? Or ready to work for my father?"
A hot spike of anger flashed through Han Li. His fists clenched. The urge to strike was a physical pulse.
He breathed. In. Deep.
Calm. He is nobody. A grub in soil.
Han Li said nothing. Lifted his gaze. Met Wang Chan's eyes with flat assessment.
Silence stretched. Grew heavy.
Wang Chan's confidence wavered. He expected fear. Not this void.
With deliberate slowness, Han Li stepped around him. Shoulder brushed past without acknowledgment.
He continued walking. Pace unchanged. Back a wall of indifference.
Wang Chan was left sputtering. Crimson fury spread up his neck.
---
Old Zhang's house was tidy. The old man welcomed him. Weak, bitter tea between them.
Han Li confirmed every detail. Stripped embellishments.
Physician Mo. Real. Selection day after tomorrow. Cultivation rumors implied. Stern demeanor. High standards.
Old Zhang spoke with warning and encouragement. A boy too clever for his circumstances.
Heart pounding, Han Li returned home. The encounter with Wang Chan faded. The ocean of tomorrow was all that mattered.
He drew water. Heated it. Scrubbed thoroughly—washing away forest grime, the skin of his old life.
As true dusk fell, he put on the green robe again.
In the dim light, no mirror. Only feel. Fabric moving with him. Shoulders straightening.
The faint reflection showed a stranger. Features sharper. Gauntness turned to austerity. Eyes holding new depth.
He removed the robe. Folded it carefully. Placed it like a talisman beside his bedroll.
---
In the loft's darkness, the day tumbled through his mind.
The empty jar. The heavy sack. The feel of the robe. The word cultivate. Wang Chan's stifled fury. Old Zhang's nod.
His fingers found the pendant. Warm now from his skin.
Mother. Father. Is this the path?
He rehearsed tomorrow. Standing before stern Physician Mo. A fleeting daydream surfaced—pressure release.
Him seizing the old man's wrist. Bold laugh. "Seriously, old man? Five taels for a strength pill!"
The fantasy evaporated. Left cool strategy.
Offer ginseng? No. Too blatant.
Common herbs. Mistletoe. Dandelion root. Honeysuckle. Show knowledge. Humility.
Decision made. The frantic energy settled. Hope condensed—no longer wild fire, but quiet ember banked at his core. A single point of light marking a path forward. Narrow. Fraught. But visible.
With the pendant pressed firmly in his palm, Han Li closed his eyes. Willed himself into sleep.
Dawn would bring the square. The crowd. The first true test.