Chapter 3: Strings of Firelight
The wind whispered through the grass as Jin sat beneath the pavilion, the borrowed guqin resting gently across his knees.
Mei Lian stood beside a brazier, toss a small pieces of sandalwood into the flame. The firelight flickered across her features, painting her in shifting golds and reds.
"First lesson," she said, her voice low. "Forget everything you've ever learned about cultivation."
Jin raised a brow. "That won't take long."
She smirked without looking at him. "Good. Then listen closely."
She approached him again, walking barefoot across the smooth wooden planks, her presence calm but commanding.
"Spiritual cultivation is more than force or talent," she said. "It's resonance. Harmony. You have to tune your body the way you tune an instrument."
He frowned. "And how do I do that when my qi won't move?"
"You feel instead of force," she replied, crouching in front of him. "Let your emotions become your qi."
"That sounds... difficult."
"It is. But it's the only path open to you now." Her eyes searched his. "Unless you want to die with that seal still choking your soul."
He looked away.
She reached forward and placed her fingers gently on his wrist. The contact was brief—but it pulsed like lightning beneath his skin.
"Close your eyes," she said. "Play one note. Let it carry something real."
Jin inhaled slowly. His fingers brushed the strings. He thought of hunger he experience. Cold nights when he sleep in alleyways. The look on his mother's face the day she left him at the temple gates.
He plucked a single note.
It rang through the night like a heartbeat.
A breeze stirred the grass outside. The brazier flame flared briefly, then settled.
When he opened his eyes, Mei was watching him—not with judgment, but with something softer. Almost sad.
"That," she whispered, "was a spark."
Jin let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. "I felt... something."
She nodded. "That feeling is your gateway. Play until it becomes a river."
They trained for hours—one note at a time, one feeling at a time. No fancy techniques. No glowing lights. Just sound and silence, fire and breath.
By the time the moon reached its peak, Jin's body ached, but his soul felt… lighter.
"You're doing well," Mei said quietly as she packed her scrolls.
Jin ran a hand through his hair. "For someone with a broken core?"
She looked at him then—really looked.
"Your core isn't broken, Jin. It's wounded. There's a difference."
He met her gaze. "What wounded it?"
Her lips parted, but she said nothing. After a moment, she looked away.
"You'll find out," she murmured. "If you survive long enough."
A chill ran through him—not from her words, but from the truth in them.
---
Later that night, Jin lay on a simple mat in the corner of the pavilion. Mei sat nearby, strumming her zither softly, the melody laced with melancholy.
"You always sleep this light?" he asked, watching her silhouette against the firelight.
"Yeah I don't sleep much," she replied without looking at him. "Dreams are dangerous."
He hesitated. "What kind of dreams?"
The music stopped.
For a long moment, only the wind answered.
Then, softly: "The kind that remind you what you lost."
Jin didn't press. He knew that tone. He'd used it himself.
Instead, he shifted onto his back and stared at the stars.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For not letting me bleed out in the street."
She gave a small, wry smile. "You're welcome. But don't thank me yet."
He blinked. "Why not?"
"Because saving you might be the most dangerous thing I've done."
She returned to her playing, and Jin felt the weight of her words settle over him like a second blanket.
He closed his eyes, and the music carried him into a dreamless sleep.