Necro descended from the terrace, the dawn's glow warming his face, the soft rhythm of the Lotus pulsing with quiet confidence within his dantian as he stepped into the new day.
Twelve petals.
The number was meaningless to others, a detail lost in the quiet breath of the mountain winds, but to Necro, each petal was a history, a story of collapse and rebuilding, of pain embraced and understanding gained.
It was the sound of the river's flow beneath the cliffs, the whisper of the pines above, the soft rustle of the wind across the grass.
It was the rhythm of evolution.
—
His days fell back into a measured cadence.
Each morning, he rose before the first rays of dawn, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone, the Lotus pulsing gently with each breath as he drew in the ambient qi of the world, aligning it with his meridians. The streams of energy moved through him with perfect clarity, each breath refining and polishing the qi as it settled into his core.
