The full moon hung majestically in the night sky above Ken City, casting its silvery light across streets that had grown quiet. The day's activities had come to an end; merchants busied themselves packing up their goods, closing wooden stalls with the scrape of wood and the clatter of locks. The city's atmosphere shifted from lively noise to calm, broken only by light conversations of those heading home.
Feng walked alone along the increasingly empty streets. His steps were steady as he turned into narrow alleys that formed a labyrinth leading toward the slum district where he lived. His mind felt heavy, shadowed by the events of the afternoon. Along the way, his eyes caught a simple scene in front of a house whose door was still open: a small boy tugging at the hem of his father's clothes, pointing toward a satay vendor who was packing up his cart.
"Dad, I want that satay," the child pleaded in a spoiled, childish voice.
The father, a man with a tired yet gentle face, simply smiled. He walked over to the vendor, exchanged a few coins, and returned with a skewer of satay for his son. "Here you go. Careful, it's hot."
Feng stopped for a moment, watching from afar. Something deep and aching stirred in his chest as he witnessed that moment. He had long been accustomed to solitude ever since his grandfather passed away when he was nine years old. Family, warmth, and protection like that were foreign fragments of life to him—a kind of theater he could only observe from a distance. He did not feel envy, only emptiness—an emptiness that had long been his familiar companion. Lowering his head, he resumed walking.
His emotions were complex, especially when he recalled Eva's biting words at the edge of the cliff. Each mockery about his status as an orphan felt like a sharp needle still embedded in him. Yet strangely, from that wound came change. Feng's face, which had once passively accepted fate, now showed a new maturity. Lines of firmness and vigilance began to harden, replacing the remnants of his former naivety.
In his hand, the pouch containing forty silver coins felt warm. It was capital to change his fate. Before going home, Feng stopped by a small grocery shop that was still open. The owner, a chubby man wearing a dusty apron, nodded from behind the counter.
"One small sack of wheat," Feng requested.
"Alright," the merchant replied briefly, taking a sack from the pile and handing it over. A few coins changed hands.
With the weight on his shoulder, Feng finally arrived at his rickety home. The creaking wooden door opened, revealing an interior that was extremely simple—almost pitiful. There was only a thin mattress with holes in several places, a rough cloth blanket that was torn and worn, and a small, unsteady table. There was no proper fireplace, just a simple clay stove in the corner.
Feng set down the sack of wheat. Carefully, he took out a wooden container and measured a portion. "At least this should last for five days," he muttered to himself, trying to manage his meager living supplies.
The ritual of preparing dinner began. He poured some wheat into a blackened iron pot—enough for two servings, an old habit from when he still lived with his grandfather. Taking a jug, he added clean water, then gathered a few pieces of dry wood and lit a fire by striking stones together. The small flame illuminated his tired face, dancing in his reflective eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, a simple wheat porridge was ready, releasing an aroma that stirred memories. Feng poured it into two plain clay bowls. He placed one bowl on the table, then looked at the pale bracelet on his wrist.
"Senior… would you like to eat?" he asked hesitantly. Did a Practitioner even need to eat?
The bracelet reacted instantly. It glowed with a soft white light, slipped off Feng's wrist, and shot into the air, spinning above the table before its light expanded and solidified. In the blink of an eye, the beautiful woman with black hair and blue eyes was once again seated gracefully across from him, as if she had always been there.
"Of course," replied Lean—now Feng knew her name—casually. She took the bowl and wooden spoon, beginning to eat with an elegance that starkly contrasted with the surroundings.
Feng was awestruck. That smooth, powerful transformation never failed to leave him stunned. "A Practitioner truly is amazing," he thought, his sense of awe and determination growing stronger.
They ate in silence for a moment before Feng finally gathered the courage to ask the question that had been troubling him ever since the forest. His voice was cautious, measured.
"Senior… forgive me if this is rude. Earlier today, if I had really fallen into the ravine… would you have saved me?"
"Of course," Lean answered without hesitation, scooping up her porridge. "The question is, do you know why I didn't take action or warn you beforehand?"
Feng shook his head, his eyes filled with questions.
"That was your first lesson. An introduction to reality," Lean said, looking straight at him. Her blue eyes were serious. "I saw your burning desire to become a Practitioner. That desire must be accompanied by an understanding of the kind of world you're about to enter. I didn't save you because that incident was your first valuable experience."
"Experience?" Feng interrupted, still confused.
"Yes. Perhaps until now you thought your life was already miserable enough and full of experiences—being an orphan, living in poverty, working hard," Lean explained, her tone no longer sarcastic but like that of a mentor giving guidance. "But what happened today—being betrayed by someone you considered a friend, facing a choice between life and death, feeling how fragile trust can be—that is a different kind of experience. It sharpens your instincts. Look at yourself now. Your thinking has changed; you're more alert, more cautious. That is capital for survival."
Lean paused, making sure Feng was listening. "In the world of Practitioners, such things are not rare. In fact, they can be far more cruel and complex. At its core, it's the same as among ordinary humans—the human heart is an unpredictable sea. Power only magnifies intentions, whether good or evil."
"So, what do you think all of this means?" Lean asked, testing him.
Feng shook his head again, keenly aware of how ignorant he still was.
"It means you must be careful, you foolish child!" Lean snapped, though this time there was patience beneath her words. "But listen closely: being careful doesn't mean completely closing yourself off and trusting no one. That's dangerous. For example, if someone far stronger than you shows kindness, you must be wary and try to understand their motives—but never openly display your distrust. If they truly intend harm, killing you would be as easy as blinking. Do you understand?"
Feng still looked confused and shook his head faintly. The concept was too abstract and nuanced for his simple way of thinking. Lean sighed, but continued eating. Their conversation went on casually, even though the topic was heavy.
After his bowl was nearly empty, Feng asked the question he had been holding back, his voice full of hope.
"Senior… does this mean I'm your disciple now?"
"My disciple?" Lean suddenly burst into laughter, her voice like the clear chime of bells filling the narrow room. "Impossible! Don't set your expectations so high."
Feng's face immediately fell, his hopes collapsing in an instant.
"But," Lean continued, seeing his expression and softening a little, "you could say I'll teach you the basics. I can be… half a teacher to you. An initial guide, perhaps."
That was enough. Feng's face instantly lit up with genuine joy. Even being acknowledged as 'half' was more than he had ever dreamed of.
"Master!" he called out respectfully, his voice trembling with gratitude.
Lean's brows creased slightly, as if she wasn't entirely comfortable with the title, but she didn't deny it. She simply gave a brief nod, accepting the name Feng had given her.
"What is Master's name?" Feng asked, now with newfound confidence.
Lean smiled, a flash of her original arrogance appearing in her blue eyes. "Listen carefully and remember this great name of mine," she said theatrically. "My name is Lean."
"Lean," Feng repeated in his heart, committing every syllable to memory.
"So, Master, when can we start training?" Feng asked, unable to suppress his anticipation.
"Now? Sleep," Lean instructed gently but firmly. "Your body is tired, your mind is full. True strength is built on a solid foundation, and that includes rest." In her heart, Lean reflected, This child truly has remarkable resilience and self-control for his age. What a pity—his life has been so miserable. Her gaze toward Feng held a trace of compassion, an emotion she rarely showed.
Hearing this, though slightly disappointed, Feng obediently complied. The promise of beginning lessons was more than enough. "Thank you, Master!" he said again, his heart filled with a new warmth.
"Hah, 'Master'… he's really calling me that," Lean muttered inwardly, a strange feeling—almost tenderness—brushing against her, which she quickly pushed aside.
That night, in the rickety house at the corner of the slums, Feng fell asleep with a feeling he hadn't known in years: hope. Beside his bed, Lean, the mysterious Practitioner, remained awake, her blue eyes gazing at the moon in the sky through the gaps in the wooden walls.