The blue-white light pulsed in the deep west, a silent metronome counting the seconds of Han Li's indecision. It breathed with the forest's own slow rhythm, patient and alien. The straps of his basket, heavy with ginseng, dug into his shoulders—an anchor to the only world he knew.
Turn back. This is enough. More than enough.
The voice in his head was clear, sensible. It sounded like his aunt's worry and his uncle's caution woven together. To walk toward an unknown light was the action of a fool in every story he'd ever heard. Greed drowned men. Curiosity killed them.
Yet, his feet remained rooted. Another voice, quieter but forged in the emptiness of a hungry childhood, whispered back. What if it is a sign? What if it is the second step? The wolf had been the first. This light could be the next. To turn away from a mystery was to choose to remain a woodcutter forever.
The debate was a silent war waged in the space between heartbeats. It was not loud, but it was exhaustive. He cycled through every warning and every fragile hope until his mind grew tired of its own circling.
Finally, with a sharp exhale that fogged in the cooling air, he took a step. Not back toward home. West, toward the light.
"Just a look," he whispered to the gathering dusk. "From a distance."
---
The land rose in a gentle, stubborn slope. The trees grew ancient, their bark silvered with lichen like cryptic script. The pulsing glow grew no brighter, but it felt closer, its source hidden behind a final ridge of mossy stone and knotted cedar roots.
Han Li crested the ridge, his breath shallow.
Below lay a small, rocky hollow. No grand spectacle. No shimmering pool or carved monument. Just a dark, unassuming opening in the base of the stone wall—a cave. Its mouth was a shallow exhale from the earth, ordinary and vaguely threatening.
His initial thrill cooled into wary disappointment. A cave. It could be a den.
The risk reassessed itself, sharper now. A predator's lair. A spirit beast's nest. He had the ginseng. He had a family waiting. This was the definition of unnecessary risk.
He stood for a full minute, the weight of the basket arguing eloquently for retreat. The prudent choice was clear.
"Huh."
He grunted the sound aloud. It was the noise of his stubbornness winning. The cave mouth was low but wide. No bones littered the entrance. No matted fur, no thick scent of animal. It looked… empty. Abandoned.
"A quick look," he told himself, his voice firming with decision. "Then I go."
He set the precious basket down beside a gnarled root, hefted his axe, and approached. Ducking his head, he entered the darkness.
---
The cave was a shallow, domed pocket in the world. It smelled of damp rock and deep time. The faint blue-white glow came from a patch of luminous moss on the far wall—cold, harmless, and utterly mundane. The ceiling was a clutter of water-smoothed stones. The space was no larger than his home's main room.
Anticlimax washed over him, tinged with relief. He let out a long breath.
"A fool's errand," he murmured, the words absorbed by the stone. He shook his head. "Old Zhang was right. I have my fortune. I should be grateful."
He turned to leave. As he did, the dying light from the entrance caught a dull metallic glint from a narrow crevice near the floor. Not part of the moss. A separate, buried speck.
He knelt, the stone cold against his knees.
There, half-sunk in gritty sediment, was a chain. He picked it up, brushing away the dust of years with his thumb. It was thin, made of a grey metal that was neither silver nor iron, cool and oddly light. The pendant was a miniature tower, exquisitely detailed—tiny windows, tapered roofs, multiple eaves—all carved smaller than his thumbnail.
He held it to the moss-light. No glow. No hum. It was just a piece of fine, forgotten jewelry. Useless. Yet the craftsmanship was impossible, a feat beyond any village smith. A relic. A story left behind.
"Well-made," he conceded to the silence.
On an impulse he couldn't name, he slipped the chain over his head. The pendant settled against his chest with a slight, cool weight—a secret with no apparent purpose. He retrieved his basket and began the long trek home, the strange light already fading from his mind, replaced by the urgent need to beat the full dark.
---
Dusk had purpled into night by the time he saw the lamplight of home. But the scene outside was wrong.
His aunt sat on the doorstep, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. His uncle stood beside her, a hand on her back, his own face drawn tight in the dim light.
"—I never should have let him go!" His aunt's voice, ragged with tears, cut the stillness. "You said it was just the near woods! If a beast took him, if he fell—"
"Hush, woman. He is careful. He will—" His uncle's words died as he looked up and saw Han Li materialize from the treeline. A profound, visible relief slackened his features. "Han Li!"
His aunt's head snapped up. For a second, she stared, disbelief warring with fear. Then she was on her feet, rushing forward. She seized his arms, her grip ferocious, her eyes scanning him for wounds. "Foolish, foolish boy! The night is here! We thought you were dead!" Her words were laced with anger, but her face was wet, her touch trembling.
"I am well, Auntie. I am sorry," Han Li said, his throat tight. He endured the storm of her fear.
His uncle approached, the sternness on his face softened by unmistakable relief. "You gave your aunt a white hair tonight, nephew. The deep woods are not for wandering after noon."
"I know, Uncle. But… I found something." Han Li's voice dropped. "Inside."
---
In the warm, close space of their home, under the steady flame of the oil lamp, the panic slowly settled into a breathless quiet. After repeated assurances, Han Li brought his basket forward. He peeled back the layer of moss.
Two sharp intakes of breath filled the room.
The ginseng roots lay in the rough weave, their forms robust, twisted, speaking of decades sunken in silent earth. The skin was taut, deeply ringed like ancient knuckles.
His aunt's hand flew to her mouth. "Heaven above…"
His uncle reached out, a calloused finger tracing the human-like shape of the largest root. His voice was hushed. "This lignification… these neck rings… Han Li." He looked up, his eyes holding a new, deep respect. "These are not just old. Some have seen nearly a century. Where…?"
"A spirit wolf showed me," Han Li said simply.
The silence that followed was thick, absorbing the impossible statement. They didn't question it. Some truths were too vast for doubt.
"It is enough," Han Li added quietly. "Enough for a year. Maybe more."
The reality of it landed upon them—the sheer, staggering repeal of their constant calculation. His aunt began to cry again, silent tears of shock and dawning joy. His uncle simply squeezed Han Li's shoulder, the gesture conveying a world of pride and shifted burden.
There were no celebrations. Only a reverent, practical urgency. Together, in silent coordination, they stored the roots in a hidden pot, sealing it beneath a loose floorboard. Their evening meal passed in a quiet daze, punctuated by glances of shared disbelief.
Later, in the dark of the loft, Han Li lay on his pallet. The day replayed behind his eyes: the wolf's intelligent gaze, the cave's cool silence, the weight of the pendant against his chest. His body was tired, but his mind was awake, humming with a new frequency. The world had cracks, and strange light—and strange kindness—leaked through them.
As sleep finally pulled him under, his fingers closed around the tiny tower. In the borderland of dreams, he felt it. Not a pulse, not a glow. But a faint, deep resonance, like a plucked string heard through stone. A silent answer waiting for its question.
The hidden tower had found its disciple.