The courtyard was quiet. Night had spread its dark cloak across the mountains, and the lanterns glowed faintly, their light trembling in the wind. Ming remained seated on the stone floor, his back straight, his gaze unfocused. The teacher had long since gone into meditation, but the boy's mind refused to rest.
The words still echoed in him:
"Some doors are meant to be left closed."
Why? What did his teacher mean?
Ming pressed his palm gently against his chest. Beneath his skin, beneath his steady heartbeat, he felt something faint—like a whisper beneath the earth. Not sound, not sight, but… presence. A quiet thrum, as though a door was truly there, waiting.
His curiosity swelled.
If I push just a little… will it answer me?
But the teacher's warning rang again:
"The seven acupoints are not walls to be broken—they are friends to be persuaded."
Ming closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. The air filled his lungs with clarity sharper than ever before. He focused, guiding his awareness inward, the way his teacher had taught him during meditation.
The world around him dimmed. The sound of crickets faded. The flicker of lanterns blurred. What remained was only his heartbeat and the faint pulse beneath it.
There…
It was not strong, not loud, but it was there. A heaviness, like a stone lying just beneath the riverbed. His qi touched it lightly, and for an instant, it stirred.
Ming's eyes snapped open, his chest rising sharply.
He felt it! Truly felt it!
Excitement surged through him, but with it came doubt. His teacher's words returned: "If you force them, they will resist. They will hate you."
He frowned deeply. Hate me? How can a part of me hate me?
The thought lingered, gnawing at him. Yet instinct told him the teacher was not exaggerating. The pulse he had felt—it was not lifeless. It was quiet, but alive, like something sleeping.
And what happens when you try to drag a sleeper awake against their will?
They fight.
As if sensing Ming's turmoil, the elder opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the boy like a silent weight.
"Ming," the teacher said quietly, "you touched it, didn't you?"
Ming startled, guilt flashing in his eyes. "…Yes."
The elder's voice did not rise, but the tone carried warning. "You must not rush."
"I didn't try to open it!" Ming defended quickly. "I only… wanted to feel it. Teacher, it was like… like something hidden, waiting for me. Isn't it natural to be curious?"
The elder studied him for a long moment. Then, with a faint sigh, he reached for the clay cup resting by his side. It was filled with water.
"Watch carefully."
He tipped the cup just slightly, and a small trickle spilled out. The water flowed smooth and gentle, dripping into the soil without disturbance.
"This is harmony," the teacher said.
Then he shook the cup hard. The water splashed wildly, spilling everywhere, droplets scattering into the air.
"This is force."
Ming frowned. "The water still left the cup either way…"
The elder's eyes sharpened. "But one nourishes. The other wastes. If you open an acupoint gently, it will flow like the first stream—smooth, steady, nourishing your body. If you strike it with force, it will burst like the second—wild, uncontrolled, and harmful."
Ming stared at the soil, where the wasted water had already vanished into the dirt. Slowly, understanding dawned in his eyes.
"…The acupoint will empty itself if I force it, won't it? It won't stay with me."
The teacher nodded. "And worse—it will resist you the next time you try. Like a bird that remembers the hand that hurt it."
Ming shivered. He lowered his gaze, chastened. "I understand, Teacher."
But when the elder closed his eyes again, returning to meditation, Ming's mind stirred restlessly. He could not stop thinking about the pulse he had felt. It was so close, so real. Like a secret hidden just under the skin of the world.
If I listen carefully, maybe it will answer me. Not with force… but with patience.
He sat straighter, closed his eyes, and tried again.
This time, he did not push. He did not prod. He simply listened.
The pulse was faint, steady, patient. Like a slow drum in the distance. He sat with it, breath after breath, heart after heart.
Minutes passed. Or hours—he could not tell.
At last, he felt it again. A flicker, a soft warmth spreading faintly through his chest. It was not acceptance, not opening, but it was not rejection either.
Ming smiled faintly. A smile only he could feel in the darkness.
So this is what Teacher meant. Not breaking. Not commanding. Just… waiting.
And though his eyes remained closed, the night around him seemed a little brighter, the stars a little closer.
When dawn finally broke, painting the mountains with pale gold, Ming had not slept. Yet he did not feel weary. His blue eyes gleamed with quiet determination as he rose to his feet.
The teacher regarded him silently.
"You did not sleep," the elder said.
Ming shook his head. "I listened. That's all."
A trace of approval flickered in the teacher's gaze. "Good. Then remember this feeling, Ming. Cultivation is not about rushing forward—it is about walking without losing your steps. Those who run too quickly will stumble. Those who walk with care… will see farther."
Ming lowered his head respectfully. But inside, his curiosity burned brighter than ever.
The seven acupoints… seven voices waiting within him. He would not force them. But he would hear them, one by one.
And when the time came, he vowed, he would open them. Not by strength. But by understanding.