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The courtyard was so quiet that Lin Xun could hear his own breath. The testing crystal stood on its wooden stand like a cold blue moon, smooth and perfect, a little taller than his chest. He set both palms against it and waited for the glow that would change his life.
Nothing happened.
A faint hiss came from inside the crystal… then a short flicker… then stillness. The surface showed his reflection, thin and tired, hair tied back, eyes too hopeful for a man who had failed twice already. He pressed harder, as if sheer will might pull power from a place in him that did not exist.
A line of characters slid across the crystal.
Spirit Root: None.
Murmurs rose around him. The other disciples did not laugh outright, but the sound was sharper than laughter. A few turned away as if it were shameful to even look at him. One voice carried low through the morning air.
"Third try… still nothing."
The presiding elder cleared his throat. He was gray at the temples and careful with his words. "You have fulfilled the rules of the sect, Lin Xun. Three tests… three results. You are released from the Heavenly Jade rolls. Your debt for food and lodging is forgiven, in honor of your grandfather's service. You may collect your belongings and go."
There was no anger in him, only the weight of finality. The elder turned to the next name without waiting for a reply.
Lin Xun bowed because he did not know what else to do. The motion felt heavy, like bending a tree that did not want to bend. He drew his hands from the crystal, stepped back, and left the circle of stone where the tests were held. The sun had not yet lifted high enough to warm the walls. The mountain air smelled of pine sap and old books. He passed the training yards, the library steps, the rows of prayer flags that clicked softly in the breeze. No one spoke to him.
At the gate, he paused. He looked back once… not at the elder or the crystal, but at the roofs and terraces and the old plum tree that grew from a crack in the stone near the kitchens. He had scrubbed pots under that tree for two summers while he waited for his first chance to test. He had thought the tree would be part of his life forever… now it was just a shape against the pale sky.
The mountain road to the city was steep. Loose gravel slid from his sandals and leapt down the slope, quick and careless. By the time he reached the first houses, light had spread across the tiled roofs like water. There were hawkers on every corner, calling out hot buns and bowls of porridge, cheap knives and thread, little charms for luck.
No one here knew his name… and that was a kind of mercy.
He moved through the market to a quiet lane near the river. Steps of mossy stone led to a narrow door with an old sign above it. The paint had faded, but the carved characters still showed through the years.
Emerald Leaf Teahouse.
His hand shook as he took the key from his sleeve. He had not been here in a long time. His grandfather had taken the sign down the day he fell ill, saying, We will hang it again when the kettles sing. The kettles had never sung again.
The lock turned with a tired click. The door swung in. Dust lifted at his feet and caught the light like pollen. The counter was right where it should be. The long shelf of clay jars lined the back wall. The little tables and stools waited with the patience of things that did not know time. He shut the door gently and stood in the middle of the room.
I am not a cultivator… so what am I.
He set his bundle on the counter, rolled his sleeves, and began to clean. It was slow work, but his hands remembered it. He filled a bucket in the back room and wiped each table until the wood showed its grain again. He cleaned the hearth and the copper kettle. He carried the jars down and dusted them one by one. Cloud Mist Green. Moonflower Oolong. Jade Spring White. The names were written in his grandfather's steady hand.
When he lifted the lid from Moonflower Oolong, a soft scent rose, clean and bright. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he was a boy again, leaning on the counter while his grandfather brewed a pot for a traveling scholar… the warm room, the low laughter, the smell of steam and leaves.
The bell above the door rang.
He opened his eyes and turned. A woman stood there, framed by the morning light. Travel-stained clothes, a sword at her hip, strands of dark hair falling across one cheek. Her gaze was cool at first… then curious when she saw the jars and kettle.
"I heard this place serves tea," she said.
He hesitated, then stepped aside. "It used to… I can make you a cup, but I can't promise much."
She sat near the window, resting her sword within easy reach. Lin Xun lit the small brazier, filled the kettle, and set it to boil. He chose Moonflower leaves without thinking, poured the water in slow circles, and let the steam curl upward.
The scent filled the room. He poured into a porcelain cup and set it before her. She lifted it, took a sip… and froze.
Her eyes widened. She set the cup down, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. A ripple of Qi shimmered faintly in the air… there, and gone again.
"What did you put in that tea?" she asked.
"Nothing… special," he said, though his pulse had quickened.
She finished the cup, left a silver coin on the table. "If you have more like that… I will be back."
When she left, Lin Xun felt it — a warmth spreading through him, slow at first, then pooling deep in his core. His breath caught.
Qi. Flowing inside him.
For the first time in his life.
---
The next customer came just before midday. A street performer in bright scarves and carrying a flute stepped inside with a grin. "I remember your grandfather's tea… the way it made the world feel lighter."
Lin Xun brewed Cloud Mist Green with a pinch of Smoked Pine. The man sipped… and began to play. Notes tumbled like coins across the room, quick and clean. People gathered at the door. The performer finished with a bow, left a copper coin, and vanished into the crowd.
Again the warmth came… lighter, but there. Proof that the woman's visit hadn't been a dream.
By afternoon, word had spread. A pair of porters came for something to ease their aching backs. He served Iron Root brew, and they left laughing, hefting their loads as if they weighed nothing. An old woman asked for a calming tea… and her hands stopped trembling before she even left.
With each cup, that quiet energy in Lin Xun grew. Small ripples building in a pool.
---
Evening brought trouble. Three men stepped into the lane, led by a broad-shouldered one with a scar and a black tooth.
"Nice smell here," the leader said. "Word is your tea makes men feel like lions. Pour us a pot and we'll call it a protection fee."
"We open at first light… come back then," Lin Xun replied.
The man pushed at the door, but Lin Xun held it.
From across the street, a voice called, "Iron Fang… you owe me a favor from the southern road."
The swordswoman stepped into the lamplight. Her tone was calm… dangerous.
"I didn't kill you," she added. "That was a favor."
Iron Fang's grin faded. He backed away slowly. "Another night, tea boy."
When they were gone, the woman gave a small wave. "Brew well… and keep your door barred. Trouble smells fresh bread."
Then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of steel and rain in the air.
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That night, Lin Xun sat on the floor in the quiet shop, eyes closed, feeling the pool of warmth within him. It wasn't much… but it was his. And tomorrow, there would be more.
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