The path that wound from the mountain's crown to the valley floor was carved in the shape of an old dragon's spine—its ridges jagged, its descent slow and deliberate. Li Wei followed it without haste. Mist still clung to the air, trailing through the terraces like strands of silk. Beneath his feet the soil pulsed with a faint, residual warmth, echo of the mountain's reply. It was as though the world itself had heard his vow and now watched to see whether he would keep it.
Below, the settlements of the Liu clan had awakened in full. From above they appeared as concentric rings of life etched against the grey stone: roofs glimmering with dew, the faint flicker of forges, banners swaying in measured rhythm. The sound of morning work rose to meet him—the scrape of whetstones, the chant of cultivators aligning breath and qi, the crackle of new fires taking to the kindling. Each note formed part of a larger harmony, one that might have comforted a man less aware of what stirred beneath.
