Old Drunkard Huo's hut wasn't so much a building as it was a suggestion made by bamboo and stubbornness. It leaned against a small, chuckling stream deep in a forest where the light fell in dappled coins of gold and green. The air smelled of damp earth, growing things, and the ever-present tang of Huo's wine.
For Ye Xingliu, it was the first place that had felt like a pause, not a prison, since the ashes.
Mei was already chasing fireflies, her laughter weaving back into the symphony of his life. Little Comet was engaged in a deeply philosophical debate with a frog by the stream.
Huo dropped a worn, travel-stained bag by the door and took a long, satisfying swig from his gourd. "Right. The bug is distracting, the girl is loud. You," he said, pointing a finger at Ye Xingliu, "are empty."
Ye Xingliu bristled slightly. "I'm 1% awakened. I absorbed–"
"A thread. A whisper," Huo interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "You have a thimbleful of power in a soul meant for an ocean. Your foundation is dust. We must make it stone." He fixed Ye Xingliu with a sharp look. "Your Life Sensing… you feel the rhythms of the world, yes?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now you will learn to make it dance to your rhythm. Or, more accurately," a sly grin spread across Huo's face, "the rhythm of a falling star."
He took a stance. It was deceptively simple. One foot slightly forward, knees bent, his body relaxed but rooted, like an old tree that had decided it could move if it really wanted to. He held his fists loosely, not clenched for destruction, but poised for release.
"This is not a fist art for crushing mountains," Huo declared. "Mountains are boring. They just sit there. This is a fist art for racing the wind, for out-drinking the moon, for laughing in the face of gravity itself. This is the Comet Fist."
The name sent a thrill through Ye Xingliu. Little Comet zipped over from the stream, its light pulsing with interest.
"Stance One," Huo announced, his voice taking on a ceremonial cadence. "Laughing Star."
He moved. It wasn't a punch; it was an exhalation. His fist shot forward, not in a straight line, but with a slight, unpredictable curve, like a spark leaping from a fire. There was a sound—a faint, clear chime, like a distant bell, that hung in the air after his fist had already stopped.
"A comet does not care for the straight path," Huo explained, settling back into the stance. "It follows its own joy. Its own chaos. Your fist must do the same. It does not seek the target; it invites the target to meet it. And it laughs all the way. Your turn."
Ye Xingliu mimicked the stance. It felt awkward. Unbalanced.
"No. You are trying to be a tree. You are a falling star. You are becoming. Now," Huo said, pointing to a thick, ancient bamboo stalk nearby. "Punch."
Ye Xingliu threw the punch. It connected with a dull thud. The bamboo shivered slightly. His knuckles stung.
"Again," Huo said, already walking back towards his hut.
"How many times?"
Huo didn't look back. "One thousand. Daily."
Ye Xingliu's jaw dropped. "A thousand? But… my hands…"
Huo paused at the door, his silhouette dark against the warm light within. "Pain," he said, his voice drifting back, laced with a strange kind of warmth, "is just the Dao saying hello. Now, introduce yourself properly."
And with that, the door creaked shut.
So, Ye Xingliu punched. The first hundred punches were pure agony. The skin on his knuckles split, smearing the resilient green bamboo with streaks of red. Each impact was a jolt of fire up his arm.
Two hundred. His shoulders screamed. His spirit, that faint 1% hum, felt dull and sluggish.
Three hundred. Tears of frustration mixed with the sweat on his cheeks. He wasn't making the chime sound. He was making a thud. A stupid, brutish thud.
"You're thinking too much, boss!" Little Comet called out, zipping around his head. "You're trying to hit it. You're supposed to be laughing at it!"
On the five-hundredth punch, something shifted. The pain was still there, a bright, sharp constant. But beneath it, he felt that cool, tingling thread of energy—the remnant of the Void Worm—stir in his core. It was faint, but it was there. As he drew his fist back for the five-hundred-and-first strike, the energy instinctively flowed down his arm, wrapping around his bleeding knuckles.
He punched.
Thud.
But the thud was a little quieter.The pain was a little less.
He wasn't healing the damage, not exactly. He was… accepting it. Integrating it. The pain was the Dao saying hello, and the energy in his veins was his own spirited, stubborn reply.
Seven hundred. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but they were even. His movements, while exhausted, were no longer frantic. He was finding a rhythm within the punishment.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine. He drew his fist back, his entire body a single, focused line of intent. He wasn't Ye Xingliu, the orphan. He was Ye Xingliu, the falling star.
He punched.
Ting.
It was the faintest,most embryonic sound. Not a chime, but a chime's ghost. A whisper of celestial laughter.
His fist connected, and for a single, fleeting moment, he felt the bamboo not as a solid object, but as a collection of vibrating, living threads. And his fist had plucked one.
He stood there, panting, his hand a bloody, throbbing mess. But he was smiling. A wide, exhausted, triumphant smile.
The door to the hut creaked open. Huo stood there, holding two steaming bowls of simple congee. He glanced at the blood-stained bamboo, then at Ye Xingliu's face.
He didn't praise him. He didn't need to.
"Congee's getting cold," was all he said, before turning back inside.
Ye Xingliu looked at his raw knuckles. The bleeding had already slowed, the skin knitting back together just a little faster than it should. The Dao had said hello. And he, it seemed, was a very chatty student.
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