As the long day finally began to dim into evening, Chún stepped lightly from the treeline and swung a forest boar of respectable size from his shoulders onto the grass of the clearing he called home.
Unlike previous hunts, the pig was only unconscious. It had occurred to him that killing and cleaning game in the forest might be neglecting his landlord — or at least wasting an easy offering.
Tonight, he would test a theory, and perhaps earn more goodwill from the Heaven and Earth Vine.
"I only ask you leave me some of the meat for my own meal — perhaps the tusks and pelt for trade, if you wish, honoured one." He spoke clearly, then stepped back into the trees for safety.
The grass rustled. A frightened squeal, brief thrashing — then silence.
When Chún returned, the boar lay transformed: a spotless, skinned pelt with several choice cuts of pork arranged neatly atop it, tusks gleaming beside them. Not a trace of blood, no scent of offal — as if the boar had been reshaped by the Dao itself. The presentation would have shamed the village butcher.
A small pile of wild herbs and a couple of his cultivated onions sat beside the meat. He smiled. "My thanks for the suggestion, your graciousness. I will bring my hunts back from now on — alive, if I can."
Through Essence sense he had seen roots and grasses slip from the clearing to draw most of the boar's Essence, its very life-force, into the Vine. No wonder live prey would be welcome — though he doubted any beast would dare enter the clearing now.
He bundled up the pelt, careful not to drop the meat, and left the tusks where they lay; they would be safe until he needed them.
Crossing to the fire pit, he asked the Mountain to raise a pair of roasting stands beside it, then glanced at the staff in his left hand with a flicker of regret. Obediently, it thinned and lengthened into a slim metal rod, sharpened at both ends and long enough to rest comfortably across the stands.
Shaking his head, he noticed that even in this form the staff still bore the lifelike grain and knotting of a tree. With a resigned sigh, he skewered the cuts of meat and laid the staff across the stands.
"Forgive the indignity, my friend, but I have no other tools proof against flame," he murmured, sketching a Fire Dao Rune in the air with his Essence. The still-new pattern flared to life as the deadwood caught, its glow dancing over the roasting stands.
While the fire burned down to a steady bed of coals, he turned to the day's routine. From the stream he fetched water — and a couple of fish — for the stew pot, adding the larger vegetables gathered during his hunt.
The smaller finds — vegetables and seeds — went into the growing plot. He harvested a few mature plants, leaving new shoots untouched, then knelt beside the row of young Essence apple saplings, their slender trunks faintly aglow. He fed them with the jiāolóng's method — the steady cycle of the Flood Dragon technique — a deliberate, measured flow rather than a careless surge. The pulse of Essence rose and fell like a quiet melody, each note in harmony with the saplings' own song, their rhythm subtly aligned to the Mountain's steady heartbeat.
Now that he had a moment to reflect, he remembered Yijing saying something similar when asking him to Ignite the Thousand Year Grass — though at the time Chún had not truly grasped what "show it more" or "add to the music" meant.
The jiāolóng's explanation had been clearer: not merely to add power, but to add the right power — not the crude "more oil" approach of common sayings, but a harmony in the flow.
He considered this for a miǎo, then gathered the last of his pickings and returned to the fire. Perhaps, he thought, Teacher had been wary of shaping his Dao too directly. But as this method was simply following the Dao when providing Essence, he saw no harm in it.
He shrugged. The method felt harmonious — so he would use it.
The initial rush of flames had died down into coals now, so he asked his locus to shift the roasting stands over the heat and set his staff to turning slowly. Then he went back to the stream to scrub his hands with some soapgrass.
The fat was just beginning to soften when he returned, so he rubbed the herbs into the meat until they clung to the sizzling surface. "Wish I had salt, oil, huājiāo… more things to get in the village tomorrow," he murmured.
Using a stick coated in Metal Essence as a knife, he cut onions and leeks and tucked them into the folds of meat. One comfort of cultivation was that the fire felt like the light of the Golden Crow on his skin — he could work close without fear of burns. Tubers went into the coals. He turned toward the cave for a long soak, keeping the barest thread of Essence on the meat to judge when it would be done.
The silver glow from the young sapling above the pool softened in harmony with the dimming world outside. Steam rose in lazy coils from the mineral water, carrying the tang of iron and stone. Chún eased into the heat with a sigh, letting the day loosen its grip.
The Mountain's steady harmony wavered.
A faint, brittle note crept into his Essence sense — the first hairline crack across a gong — pointing back toward the cave wall.
He followed the disturbance with his senses and found the rolled panther fur leaning against the stone. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then a twitch — so slight it might have been imagined — and the shadows around it failed to sit quite right. His stomach tightened. The Essence Stone was still inside. Everyone knew the childhood tales, but while skinning it he had thought only of value, not danger. Careless as a child chasing fireflies into the river reeds… I left the Essence Stone in it.
In his Essence sense, the fur began to shimmer — not the gentle motes of lingering life-force, but a sharp, unnatural flicker that jarred against the Mountain's chords. The flicker pulsed with the brittle note, feeding it, quickening it. Violet light within deepened toward that sickly hue every traveller's tale marked as corruption.
He was already out of the pool and striding for the tunnel, water sheeting from his skin. The pulse sped faster. He snatched up the fur, held it well clear of his body, and broke into a jog.
By the time he reached the cliff-side opening, the hum had become a grating snarl in his Essence sense. He bowed quickly toward the Heaven and Earth Vine.
"My Lady, I think this one—" he raised the fur, "—is planning mischief. It still carries its Essence Stone, which I cannot use. Perhaps it may serve you? If you will, please leave me the hide for trade."
The bundle convulsed. Bindings snapped. A snarl like tearing silk split the air — and a panther of violet fire launched for his throat.
The Vine's response was instant and alien. Not gentle feeding — containment, cleansing. Essence roared in Chún's senses: the crash of bronze gongs, shrieking reed-flutes, and the silk-rip scream of the wraith's fury. Its voice jarred against the Mountain's song — a wrong note that, left to fester, would spread like rot. Vines struck like whips; flowers opened like screaming mouths; the violet blaze was snared.
Those screams grew ragged as the Vine ripped the wraith's core apart, streamers of violet Essence unravelling into fine threads that drifted like dying fireflies before vanishing into the Vine's heart. For a breath after, a warped echo of the wraith's cry hung in the air — a discord fragment slowly dissolving into silence.
The slow, steady chords of Earth, Wood, and Water returned — calm and sure as a heartbeat.
The pelt fell limp to the grass. Chún exhaled and bowed deeper than habit, holding the gesture until his breath steadied and the song was fully calm again.
"Thank you. I owe you my life… and the reminder. I was thinking like a villager counting strings of coin, not like a Cultivator guarding his life. I should have taken the Essence Stone the moment I killed it — I will not forget again."
He lifted the hide. The Essence Stone was gone; the fur was stripped of all lingering Essence.
The claw and bite marks from his original fight were gone, leaving it in perfect condition, teeth and claws intact. The Essence Stone had been repairing the pelt, weaving it back into its prime state to make the best possible vessel before trying to 'live' again.
In the Mountain's rich air, the process had taken only a day or two — far quicker than in the outer lands, where most such tales never left the firepit. Here, the Heavens' breath soaked every root and stone. In a place with truly overwhelming Essence, it might have happened in the time it takes to draw a few shùn — and the sickly violet of corruption would have bloomed again far sooner. The faintest ghost of that brittle, wrong note still whispered through his Essence sense before fading away.
As the old saying went: A beast's Stone is a seed; leave it in the flesh, and it will remember how to grow teeth.
He rolled the pelt carefully and set it just inside the tunnel entrance — close enough for the Heaven and Earth Vine to reach should it ever stir again.
The fire still burned low and steady, fat sizzling quietly on the meat. It would be a while yet before it was ready. The earlier clash still clung to his skin — the scent of damp grass, a ghost-trace of scorched Essence from the Vine's purging. His muscles ached in odd places, and his pulse still carried the faint echo of that brittle, wrong note.
He turned back into the tunnel, letting the Mountain guide him to the mineral spring once more. The steam wrapped him as he slid into the water. For a time, he simply floated, letting the deeper chords of the Mountain's song wash away the discord.
Here and there, faint specks drifted through his Essence sense — motes of harmless, lingering energy from the battle, bobbing and fading like the last fireflies of summer. A few ripples of violet tone — the dying fragments of the wraith's cry — wove briefly among them before dissolving into the harmony.
He thought again of the village tales, of wraiths that lingered long enough to think and lead their own kind. This one had lasted only a few breaths before the Vine took it — long enough to remind him that even travellers' nightmares were born from something real.
When his breathing had steadied, he rose and dressed in a fresh loincloth and left the cave, returning to the firepit.
Chún settled into a low crouch beside the fire, running through the day's account. Failed Essence-work that had nearly dissolved him into nothingness; that dog-hearted Bear; the monkeys; overloading himself with too much power; the snakes; the jiāolóng; even the Vine — six brushes with death in one day, seven if he counted the shadow-panther's wraith just now, and that one a danger that could have followed him home if not for the Vine's intervention.
Then he weighed the other side of the ledger: learning the Monkey Movement skill, tempering twice in one day, mastering the beginnings of Concealment Dao, bargaining and surviving in the presence of two of the mountain's most powerful beings, gaining a source of Metal Essence, and claiming the staff now resting across the roasting stands.
Was the day's harvest worth the dangers sown?
His gaze returned to the boar and the scent filling the night air. "A fair trade, this time," he murmured.
The boar had roasted beautifully — skin crisp and golden, the air rich with the scent of herb-laced fat and the sweetness of wild onion and leek sizzling on the coals.
Chún ate until his belly was pleasantly heavy, offering the first share to the Heaven and Earth Vine, which declined with the slow rustle of resting leaves. The Silver Snake appeared to take its portion — surprisingly content with roasted meat instead of live prey — before vanishing again into the night.
What remained he cut into strips and hung above the coals to dry, a few pieces sinking into the stew pot where they would enrich the broth for days. The smell alone promised a better flavour than anything he had tasted before arriving on the Mountain.
Wiping his hands on a twist of barkcloth, he leaned back and watched sparks drift upward into the night. Tomorrow, he would go to the village — with trade goods enough to barter for salt, oil, huājiāo, and whatever else might suit the Mountain's gardens.
A small smile touched his mouth at an errant thought — he needed more trade goods. "Mountain, is there any way you can show me the paths and places worth visiting between here and the village?"
A pulse of Essence spread through his vision, blooming into drifting mist. Colours and light condensed like brushstrokes on silk until the haze cleared to reveal a living ink-painting wrought from motes, lines, and washes of differing hues. As his gaze touched each stroke, it shifted subtly — sharpening here, brightening there — so the Mountain's peaks, valleys, and paths breathed and moved beneath his eyes.
His smile softened to awe. "So… you can paint the world."
Landmarks rose in delicate characters woven of Essence-light: Monkey Forest, Silver Willow Clearing, Dragonhome, Vinehome. Each name shimmered faintly when his attention lingered, as if bowing in acknowledgement.
A slender trail wound down to the foothills. In one corner, the Mountain placed a measure stick; all the places he recognised were clustered within fifty li.
Chún exhaled in quiet approval. "So many places in such a small part of you… but for tomorrow — only the plants I can help ignite or grow. The ones worth taking to trade."
The painting shifted; some characters faded like ink washed by rain, leaving only the chosen sites. A path linked them in a graceful arc — but instead of running straight, it wandered.
"Why the wandering?"
Several of the faded characters flared back into being, each haloed in a wash of colour — crimson, gold, jade — but underlaid with the same faint disharmony he had felt from the shadow-panther's pelt. In his Essence sense, those tones rasped against the painting's harmony, the wrong-note burr that in every tale meant danger or corruption, no matter the hue.
"Ah. Avoiding Essence Beasts. That's fine… but here—" He gestured. "Nèige… show me only the line between these points."
The rest of the painting dissolved into pale mist. What remained was a single flowing stroke of light, its rhythm in his Essence sense like the whisper of breath over a flute, soft and measured. Recognition tugged at him.
"That is the Concealment Dao Rune," he said slowly. "Ignitions placed here make a natural Manifestation."
The Mountain's answer was a quiet pulse of assent through the living ink-painting, the lines rippling once before they stilled.
Chún studied the single stroke for a moment longer. "What about other ignitions? The strong points that aren't in this character — wouldn't they break the shape?"
In answer, the mist swelled outward. The narrow painting unfolded like an immense scroll spilling down a calligrapher's table. Thousands of motes ignited across the silk, some no bigger than pinpricks, others swelling like full moons.
Their colours were countless — gold, emerald, indigo, rose — but not all shone cleanly. Here and there, a faint burr of disharmony rasped against his Essence sense, the same wrong note that marked corruption. Some clung only faintly to their hue, others had begun to sicken toward the colour of rotting fruit.
The Mountain's brush swept through the motes, linking some in flowing arcs. Each arc became a distinct Dao form — some shapes spare and elegant, others as complex as a master's seal, strokes curling back on themselves in layers of meaning.
The linked shapes shifted and overlapped, sharing points and pathways. It was a living tapestry of Dao, lines breathing in unison until all the separate forms revealed themselves as part of a greater whole.
Chún's breath caught. The entire mass pulsed as one — and the beat was as familiar as his own pulse, the deep chord that bound him to the Mountain.
"That is you," he murmured with fascination.
The Mountain's answer came as a warm, grounding tone, the silk-brush lines rippling once before the painting faded, leaving only the night and the steady thrum of its presence in his chest.
"Mm. I should sleep while the Mountain is quiet — tomorrow will ask much of my feet and my hands."