Chapter 7: The Rhythm of the Fall
The morning of the sixteenth dawned with a clarity that seemed to seep into Damish's very bones. The frustrating plateau in his practice of the Shān Xī technique still lingered, but a new determination had taken root, partly fueled by Liang's unexpected visit and grudging respect. He could not remain sequestered in his room, endlessly circling the same mental track. He needed to move, to see, to engage with the world that was, for now, his home.
When Kai arrived with his breakfast—a steaming bowl of congee topped with a perfectly cooked egg and finely chopped scallions—Damish was already dressed and waiting.
"I need to get out," Damish announced before Kai could even offer a greeting. "I've been staring at these walls for two weeks. I want to see the academy. The real academy, not just the path to the Headmaster's hall."
Kai's face broke into a wide, delighted grin. "Yes! Finally! I was beginning to think you were part of the furniture. Finish your food. I'll be your guide."
The congee tasted better than any meal Damish could remember. It was more than nourishment; it was fuel for exploration. He ate with a purpose, and soon the two of them stepped out of the quiet hallway and into the main thoroughfare of the Cloud Peak Academy.
The difference was immediate and overwhelming. His room had been a bubble of sterile silence. Outside was a living, breathing organism of disciplined energy. The air, crisp and thin, was filled with a symphony of focused sound—the rhythmic thud of feet on packed earth, the sharp, percussive exhales of effort, the whistle of wood cutting through air, and beneath it all, a low, resonant hum that felt like the mountain itself was breathing.
His first stop was a wide, sun-drenched courtyard, smaller and less formal than the main training ground. Here, the practitioners were not hardened seniors like Liang and Jin, but children. They couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old, dressed in miniature versions of the training uniforms, their small faces set in expressions of intense seriousness.
They were paired off, each holding a small, expertly carved wooden sword. An older disciple, perhaps fifteen, moved among them, offering quiet corrections.
"Again," the older boy instructed. "From the third form. Remember the footwork. It is the foundation. The sword is an extension of your will, but your will must be grounded."
The children moved. And Damish felt his breath catch in his throat.
It was not play. It was art. Their small bodies flowed through the movements with a natural, unforced grace that was mesmerizing. There was no hesitation, no clumsiness. Each block, each thrust, each pivot was executed with a precision that spoke of thousands of repetitions. Their wooden swords didn't just swing; they sang, cutting clean, perfect arcs through the morning light.
He saw a little girl, her dark hair tied in two severe buns, execute a perfect parry and riposte against a slightly larger boy. Her movement was economical, flawless. The boy nodded, respecting the skill, and they reset without a word.
These weren't children playing at being warriors. They were apprentices mastering a craft as naturally as children in his world might learn to read or throw a ball. The sheer, ingrained normalcy of their incredible skill was what stunned Damish the most. This was their ABCs. This was their playground.
"They start at five," Kai whispered, seeing his awe. "The body is most pliable then. The mind is most open. They learn form before they learn force."
Damish could only nod, his engineer's mind reeling at the efficiency of it, at the cultural chasm it represented. He thought of children his nephew's age, glued to tablets, and felt a dizzying sense of dislocation.
Kai led him on, through a covered walkway that opened onto a vast, multi-leveled garden. It was not a garden of flowers, but of function. Herbs grew in neat, regimented rows, each plant thriving in its specific terroir of sun and shade. Damish recognized ginger, ginseng, goji berries, and dozens of other plants he couldn't name. Disciples, their hands stained with earth, moved quietly between the beds, harvesting, pruning, tending. The air was thick with a complex, medicinal fragrance.
"Our pharmacy," Kai said proudly. "Instructor Bo believes a strong body is built from the inside. Every meal, every tonic, is part of the training."
Next, they passed the library. It was a two-story wooden structure, its doors open to reveal shelves upon shelves of scrolls and bound books. Unlike the silent libraries of his university, this one buzzed with a low energy. Disciples sat cross-legged on the floor, not just reading, but moving their hands, tracing patterns in the air, arguing in hushed, passionate tones over diagrams of the human body and complex star charts.
"The theory behind the practice," Kai explained. "Anatomy, philosophy, astronomy, music. The body is a microcosm of the universe. To understand one is to understand the other."
Everywhere Damish looked, he saw purpose. There were no idle hands. A group of older disciples practiced calligraphy with brushes as tall as a man, their movements a martial art in itself, each stroke containing immense control and power. Another group lifted not iron weights, but strangely shaped stone jars, their exercises a slow, deliberate dance of balance and core strength.
The academy was a single, integrated machine where every cog, from the youngest child to the oldest master, turned in perfect synchrony towards a singular goal: perfection of being. It was humbling and slightly intimidating.
The tour culminated at the edge of the compound, where the man-made structures gave way to raw nature. The path led through a grove of ancient pine trees and ended at a massive cliff face. And from that cliff, a waterfall plunged.
It wasn't a raging, thunderous torrent, but a powerful, steady, unwavering cascade of white water. It fell thirty meters into a crystal-clear pool that swirled with aquamarine depths before giving birth to a swift stream that snaked down the mountain. The sound was not a roar, but a constant, deep-throated thrum—a vibration that Damish could feel in his chest.
Mist kissed his face, cool and invigorating. The sunlight caught the spray, painting a permanent, shimmering rainbow in the air. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
But for Damish, it was more than beauty. He stood at the water's edge, mesmerized, and felt a strange, pulling familiarity. The rhythm of the falling water… it was hypnotic. Unchanging. Eternal.
Inhale… hold… exhale…
The thought surfaced from nowhere. He watched the water, and without conscious thought, he began to match his breathing to its rhythm. The immense, patient power of the waterfall, the way it fell without force, without struggle, simply following its inevitable path—it was a manifestation of the principle he had been struggling with on his floor.
The Shān Xī technique wasn't about doing. It was about allowing. It was about finding the deep, unwavering rhythm that already existed within him, just as this waterfall had its own immutable rhythm. He had been trying to command his breath, to force the energy. But the waterfall didn't force the mountain; it was the mountain. The breath didn't force the body; it was the body.
He sank onto a smooth, sun-warmed rock, never taking his eyes off the cascade. The world around him—Kai, the birds, the distant sounds of training—faded into a soft blur. There was only the water and the breath.
He didn't try to visualize anything. He didn't count. He just watched and breathed, allowing the rhythm of the fall to become his own. He felt the vibration in his sternum, a resonance that seemed to loosen something tight and knotted deep inside him, something the controlled practice in his room had been unable to touch.
Kai stood a respectful distance away, watching. He saw the intense focus on Damish's face, the complete absorption. He saw the slight, almost imperceptible movement of his chest, rising and falling in a slow, deep rhythm that was new. A small, knowing smile touched Kai's lips. He said nothing. He didn't move. He simply held the space, allowing the mountain to teach its lesson.
An hour passed. The sun climbed higher. The rainbow in the mist shifted its angle.
Finally, Damish blinked. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if coming up for air from a deep dive. He slowly, almost reluctantly, averted his gaze from the waterfall.
When he turned to look at Kai, his eyes were different. The faint frustration that had been clouding them for days was gone. In its place was a new light—a light of dawning comprehension, of a deep, quiet connection finally made. It was the light of someone who had not found the answer in a book, but had felt it in his bones, heard it in the relentless, patient song of falling water.