Chapter 5: Embers in the Mist
Jiang Wei woke before dawn, the brief thrill of yesterday's survival now tempered by the persistent ache in his limbs and the whisper of uncertainty that greeted every new disciple. The mountain air was colder than memory, needles of mist swirling above the training yard as he stepped into the gray light. The pebble at his wrist echoed with a subtle warmth, like quiet encouragement from something old and hidden.
By the time the first bell rang, the courtyard was already alive. Ming Xue was running silent strikes in a far corner, movements precise and coiled with purpose, while Han Zhi practiced breathing exercises by the dormitory steps, lips moving in urgent prayer. Yao Ping appeared at last, rubbing sleep from his eyes but already grinning, as if glad just to be here another day.
Today, Elder Hui stood before them again, flanked by several inner disciples in crisp white sashes. His gaze swept the assembled ranks. "Your success yesterday does not make you disciples in truth," he said, his voice cutting through the morning haze. "Today, you will begin the real work—cultivation of body and spirit. Each task is designed to push your limits. Only through hardship can true potential surface."
The first task was the Thousand Strides—*a seemingly simple run across the sect's terraced hills, while carrying a heavy sandbag slung over the shoulders.* Yao Ping groaned but shouldered his bag with determination. Ming Xue's eyes fixed on the farthest stone marker, her jaw set. Han Zhi looked pale, but gave a shaky nod as Jiang Wei offered him a silent look of encouragement.
The course wound its way through brush and steep stone steps, each slope a new test of grit. Jiang Wei's breath soon grew ragged, legs threatening to give. But he gritted his teeth and pressed on, ignoring the jeers of passing senior disciples. The pebble's heat at his wrist was almost pulsing now, lending an uncanny clarity to each step, as if ancient memories whispered methods of pacing, conserving energy, measuring each stride against the rhythm of his pounding heart.
He was far from first, but could sense he was not last. Ming Xue ran nearly effortlessly at the front, motion smooth as running water. Yao Ping powered ahead grimly; even Han Zhi, though breathless, did not collapse.
By the time Jiang Wei staggered across the finish line, his robes were soaked through, muscles burning. Elder Hui's sharp eyes lingered not on the speediest, but on those who showed stubborn will. "Remember this pain," he told them all. "It is the root from which strength will grow. Now, lunch—and then your next lesson."
In the mess hall, steam curled from bowls of millet and greens. Conversation was softer today, fatigue drawing out honesty. "How many will drop out tomorrow?" Yao Ping mused, staring into his porridge. "Does it get easier?"
Ming Xue shook her head. "You grow stronger. That is all."
Before afternoon training, a brief rest was permitted, but Jiang Wei felt a twist of unease. He sat at the foot of a juniper tree, rolling the stone across his palm. Closing his eyes, he focused inward—searching for the root of the pulse, the source of the stone's intuition. *For a breathless moment, the world faded: he saw a broken battlefield under a sky of embers, a throne cold and alone, and a shadowed figure whispering, 'Rise, or be forgotten forever.'*
When he opened his eyes, something had shifted inside. Fear was joined by resolve.
After the break, the class gathered for their first lesson in spirit stone channeling. Elder Hui led them to a courtyard lined with weathered statues, each holding a small, glowing stone in their hands. "These are the source of our art," he explained. "A cultivator's future is written in how they absorb and transform spiritual energy. Focus—draw it in, let it circulate. Show me the spark of your will."
Each student took a stone. Jiang Wei closed his eyes, tuning out the snickers of those who doubted him, the ache in his body, the cold of the world. Instead, he listened for the hum of life buried in the stone. Slowly, faintly, it came—a glow like ash turned to ember, barely there, but growing.
The light in his spirit stone was no brighter than a candle—but Elder Hui watched him with an odd, almost approving look. "Again tomorrow. The path begins with flame."
As night fell and exhaustion claimed him, Jiang Wei held the spirit stone—and the old pebble—close. For the first time, he believed the journey would one day ignite into something far greater than mere survival.