Chapter 5: The Weight of Sorrow
Jin awoke before dawn. A breeze swept through the pavilion, carrying the earthy scent of dew and distant woodsmoke. He sat up slowly, stretching limbs still sore from yesterday's training. Despite the ache in his muscles, his heart beat with quiet anticipation.
Mei Lian stood outside the pavilion, her silhouette framed by the pale light of the rising sun. She was dressed differently today—her usual leather corset replaced by a long, flowing robe of midnight blue that rippled like water with each movement.
Jin watched as she played a gentle melody on her zither, fingers moving with deliberate grace. The tune was soft and haunting, like a lullaby meant to coax tears from a sleeping god.
He approached quietly, but she didn't look up.
"You slept like a stone," she murmured without missing a note.
"I dreamed of nothing," he said, voice hoarse. "No nightmares. No memories."
"That means your mind is preparing itself. Clearing the noise." She let the final note fade into silence before rising to face him. "You're ready."
"For what?" he asked.
She turned toward the eastern hills. "For sorrow."
---
They left the pavilion soon after, hiking through the misty foothills until they reached a rocky plateau surrounded by low pines. A small lake shimmered in the distance, its surface still and silver under the morning light.
Mei knelt beside a small shrine—an old stone marker carved with symbols Jin didn't recognize. She traced one of the glyphs with her fingertip, then stood, her was face unreadable.
"This place is sacred," she said. "It amplifies emotional resonance. You'll feel everything stronger here."
Jin nodded slowly. "Stronger is good."
"Not always," she warned. "Sorrow, when invoked, can consume you. If you lose control, it can unravel your mind—and worse, your soul."
He stared at her. "Then why do this at all?"
"Because sorrow is part of the seal," she said. "It binds your potential as much as your past does. You need to confront it. All of it."
She handed him the old guqin again. The crack from yesterday had been expertly mended, and the strings shimmered faintly with a reddish glow.
"Play what you fear to remember," she said. "Let it speak through your fingers."
Jin took a breath and sat down. His fingers hovered above the strings, trembling.
He closed his eyes.
The first notes came gently, hesitant. Then firmer. Then deeper.
He played the memory of being left behind. Of small hands reaching for a mother who didn't look back. Of long nights under temple eaves, rain leaking through cracks in the roof. Of hunger so constant it became part of him.
Mei sat beside him silently as the music built—a low, echoing song of loss and longing.
And then it happened.
Something inside him cracked.
A vision slammed into his mind, unbidden and vivid:
---
He was five again. Sitting on a stone step, clutching a bowl of rice. His mother's voice echoed in the distance—soft, regretful, and far away.
He looked up and saw her walking away, dressed in white, disappearing into the crowd.
Then another memory—older.
He stood before a sect gate, barefoot, offering his guqin to a laughing cultivator in blue robes.
"You? You think you can cultivate with that trash?" the man sneered.
Laughter. Mockery. A door slamming in his face.
Then the alley. The cold. The hunger. The bruises from rival beggars. The blood on his lip after trying to protect a girl who never remembered his name,she didn't care.
---
The visions faded as the final note of his song rang out.
Jin dropped the guqin and fell forward, gasping. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn't sob. His chest was hollow—emptied, gutted.
Mei caught him before he hit the ground.
"You did well," she whispered.
"It hurts," he choked.
"It's supposed to."
Her arms were firm around him, steady. He felt her breath against his temple. Her presence grounded him like a tether in a storm.
"The seal's weakening," she murmured. "I can feel it."
He looked up at her, vision blurry. "How can sorrow give me strength?"
"Because it carves space for power," she said softly. "The more you endure, the deeper you become."
Their faces were close now. Closer than before. Her hand lingered on his cheek, brushing away a tear with her thumb.
Jin didn't flinch.
And yet, neither of them moved closer. The moment shimmered between them, unspoken and unbroken.
Finally, Mei stepped back, clearing her throat.
"We'll rest here for a while," she said. "Let your soul adjust. Pushing further today would be reckless."
Jin nodded, still trembling. "Okay."
He sat back, staring at the sky, where clouds drifted like pieces of forgotten dreams.
---
Hours passed in silence.
Mei sat a few paces away, writing in a worn notebook. Occasionally, she would glance his way, but never for long.
Jin tried to meditate, as she'd taught him, but the memories kept surfacing—less painfully now, more like old echoes. Faded. Lingering.
When the sun began to set, Mei finally spoke again.
"There's something I need to tell you."
He turned toward her.
"There are others like you," she said. "Hidden. Sealed. Rejected by the traditional sects. Most of them never awaken."
Jin frowned. "Why?"
"Because no one teaches them the old ways. Because the path of emotional cultivation is… forbidden. Feared."
"Why me?"
Mei hesitated.
"Because," she said at last, "you resonated with me."
Jin's heart skipped.
"I don't mean romantically," she added quickly, though her voice wavered slightly. "Not yet, anyway. I mean your song—it stirred something I thought I'd buried. You have the potential to go further than I ever did."
Jin looked down. "I'm not sure I can carry that."
She stood and offered him her hand.
"Then don't carry it alone."
He took it.
---
That night, they camped beside the lake. The moon cast a silver path across the water, and the wind whispered through the pines like a song just out of reach.
Jin lay on his bedroll, staring at the stars.
"Mei," he said softly.
She didn't respond at first. Then: "Yes?"
"Do you ever wish you could forget it all?"
A pause.
"Sometimes," she admitted. "But then I remember—if I forgot, I'd lose the part of me that survived."
Jin turned to face her. "You're stronger than you let on."
She smiled faintly. "And you're stronger than you believe."
The fire crackled.
Then she said, "Tomorrow we begin the next phase. The path of desire."
Jin blinked. "That sounds… dangerous."
"It is."
Another long silence.
Then she added, teasingly, "Don't worry. I'll be gentle."
His face flushed, but he didn't look away.
Neither did she.
And somewhere, deep in his core, something pulsed again—brighter this time. Louder.