The pale dawn light that filtered through the loft's slats was not gentle. It was a slow, revealing tide, illuminating dust motes that hung like suspended doubt in the air. Han Li woke to a familiar silence downstairs, but this morning it held a different texture. It was not the quiet of rest, but the tense, hollow absence of routine—the missing scrape of the measuring scoop against the bottom of the grain jar.
He descended the ladder, the worn wood smooth under his calloused feet. His aunt stood before the open storage jar, her back to him, her posture a silent sculpture of weary resignation. Her shoulders were not slumped in defeat, but held in a rigid line, as if bearing the invisible weight of the jar's emptiness.
"There is nothing to prepare," she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual morning friction. She did not turn. "Your uncle left early. He took five of the roots."
Han Li nodded, though she couldn't see. The ginseng roots, wrapped in rough cloth and hidden beneath a floorboard, were fortune, but not yet food. They were potential, abstract and suspended in anxious hours. He moved to the hearth, added a few sticks to the dormant ashes, and struck the flint. The small, blooming flame was the only action either could muster. He joined her in the quiet vigil, the two of them listening to the village wake—the distant crow of a rooster, the shout of a cart driver, the slosh of water from a well—while their own home remained a still-life of waiting.
---
Two hours later, the door creaked open with deliberate slowness. Uncle slipped inside like a shadow, his movements furtive and quick. A heavy, lumpy cloth sack was slung over his shoulder. He turned and barred the wooden door, the thick beam falling into place with a solid thunk. Only then did he let out a long, relieved sigh that seemed to drain the tension from the very walls.
Auntie's worry, etched in the lines of her face, melted into sharp, burning curiosity. "Well?" she whispered, as if the walls themselves might be listening.
Uncle's answer was his grin—a wide, cracking expression that broke through the weariness on his face like sunlight through storm clouds. He heaved the sack onto the rough-hewn table with a substantial thud. The contents clinked and rustled with promise.
With the ceremony of a man unveiling a treasure, he began to unpack.
First, a sack of fine wheat flour, not the coarse, grey bran they were used to, but a pale, powdery softness that puffed into the air. Next, a substantial parcel of salted pork, the fat glistening like amber in the dim light, its rich, savory smell instantly permeating the room. Then, a bulky, crackling packet of clean, white salt, a luxury they used by the pinch, not by the handful.
Han Li's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. A bright, warm feeling, fierce and sudden, surged in his chest. It was a physical reaction to the visceral sight of scarcity ending. A genuine, breathless smile broke across his face, one he didn't try to suppress.
"I sold five roots," Uncle explained, his voice low but thrumming with excitement. "At the herbal wholesaler in Hesheng Town. One hundred silver taels." He let the number hang, a tangible sum in the air. "I bought these for five. The rest," he tapped the side of his head, "is hidden away. Safe."
Auntie's hands, practical and worn, flew to the sack of flour, feeling its satisfying heft. "One hundred taels…" she breathed, the number a sacred incantation. Then, as if shaking off a spell, her eyes narrowed, her maternal practicality reasserting itself with a sharp click. "You spend like water flowing downhill! Five taels! Li'er faced danger for these roots, climbed where no one else would dare! This is not for reckless feasting!"
Uncle's grin didn't falter. It deepened. He reached deeper into the seemingly bottomless bag. "Don't scold yet, wife. The eyes see only the first layer." He pulled out two soft paper packages, carefully tied with twine. He handed the larger, flatter one to Han Li, the other, more folded one to his wife. "For you, a proper dress. No more patches. And for our Li'er…"
Han Li's fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled with the twine. He unfolded the crisp paper.
Inside lay a robe. Not of the coarse, scratchy hemp that was his second skin, but of smooth, durable cotton, finely woven. It was dyed a deep, resilient green—the precise shade of new pine needles in spring sun. It was the kind of robe a young scholar might wear, a student with a future, not a woodcutter's nephew with a past.
"Uncle…" Han Li's voice was hushed, strained. "The green robe? From Old Chen's stall? This is… too much."
"I did," Uncle said, his own voice thick. "You are not a beggar. Our circumstances have changed. Let the change be seen."
With hesitant, almost reverent hands, Han Li shed his patched, earth-stained tunic. The morning air was cool on his skin. He slipped his arms into the green robe. The fabric whispered against him, cool and firm. It fell straight from his shoulders, the fit not perfect but profoundly good, the sleeves ending just at his wrists. He had no mirror, but he saw the change reflected in his aunt's eyes. The sharp worry softened, replaced by a slow, dawning acknowledgment. The gaunt, pale boy looked suddenly, startlingly, like a young man of quiet prospects. It was not just the robe; it was the way he stood within it.
He ran his fingers down the front, feeling the sturdy seams. Then, with great care, he took it off, folding it back into its paper shroud. "It is too fine for daily wear. I will save it. For a proper occasion."
"This is not all," Uncle said, his expression shifting from jubilant to gravely serious. The room's atmosphere tightened again. "I have news. You will be happily mad."
"What news? Speak plainly," Auntie said, clutching her own unopened package.
"I heard from Old Zhang, the one whose cousin serves in the magistrate's house. A renowned physician is coming to our village. Soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Some whisper… he is an immortal. Or near enough."
"An immortal?" Han Li's skepticism was immediate, a defense against the staggering hope such a word unleashed. He thought of the pendant, cold against his chest. The world had layers, he knew that now. But an immortal in their dusty village?
"Old Zhang doesn't claim it himself," Uncle conceded, leaning forward, his eyes alight. "But the rumors that ride ahead of this man… they say he is three centuries old. That his medicine can knit bones without a scar, can bring back the color to a dying man's cheeks. He is coming for a single purpose: to select his final disciple."
Auntie gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. "Three centuries? Why here, in our nowhere place?"
"To find an heir," Uncle said, his gaze locking onto Han Li with an intensity that was almost physical. "The chosen one will learn his medical arts. Receive his entire inheritance. And if the disciple is a boy…" he paused for effect, "he will marry the physician's daughter—a girl said to be beautiful as a fairy from a painting—and become heir to all wealth and knowledge."
Han Li waved a dismissive hand, a flush of embarrassment heating his neck. "This is just talk. Market fantasies. Tales to sell sweet buns and wonder."
"Here is what is not fantasy," Uncle leaned in until the scent of his journey—dust and horse—filled the space between them. "Old Zhang's cousin heard it from the magistrate's own steward. The chosen disciple's family receives one hundred taels of silver. A betrothal gift. Just for the selection. Just for the chance."
"One hundred taels?" Auntie breathed the words as if they were the names of saints. "On top of…?" Her eyes flicked to the floor, to the hidden hoard.
Han Li fell silent. The room seemed to tilt. The arithmetic of destiny unfolded in his mind with terrifying clarity. If I were selected… One hundred taels on top of their new fortune. A new house with a solid tile roof, not thatch. A field of their own. No hunger, not for decades. His aunt and uncle, their backs finally unbent, living in ease for their remaining days. The dream was so vast, so lush, it felt fragile, like a soap bubble he dared not touch.
"There is more," Uncle continued, his voice dropping to a tremulous whisper, as if the words themselves were combustible. "Old Zhang said… the steward swore on his ancestors… the selected disciple will also be taught to cultivate. To walk the immortal path. To grasp the truths behind the world."
The word 'cultivate' landed in Han Li's heart not as a whisper, but with the profound, resonant weight of a temple bell. It was a key, a structured path into the deeper, colder world he had only glimpsed—the world of the spirit wolf's glinting intelligence, of the pendant's mysterious chill. It was no longer just a rumor; it was a destination.
"Our Li'er has always been clever with herbs," Auntie said, her voice thick with a fierce, desperate hope. "His hands are steady. His mind is quick. Now… now is his time."
"We must pray to every ancestor and god who will listen," Uncle agreed, his hands clasping together. "Tomorrow, we go to the village square."
---
The celebratory meal was a quiet, intense affair. Flatbread made from the new flour, cooked on the griddle until golden, flavored with precious slivers of the salted pork. Each bite was a symphony of richness Han Li had almost forgotten. Yet, as his stomach filled, a different kind of restlessness took hold. The energy in the small house was too compressed, too full of hope and fear. He needed air. He needed to confirm the shape of this fate with his own ears.
"I will go see Old Zhang myself," he announced, standing. "To hear the details without the wine of excitement."
He left the green robe folded on his pallet, donning his old tunic. The contrast was sharp, a reminder of the line he walked between two lives.
The village street was lively with the softening light of dusk. Smoke from cooking fires ribboned into the lavender sky. As Han Li walked with purposeful strides toward the older part of the village, a large, familiar shadow fell across his path, blocking the narrow way.
Wang Chan, the son of the wealthiest farmer in the region, stood with his arms crossed over his broad, well-fed chest. His face, round and perpetually flushed with a sense of entitlement, held the easy cruelty of a boy whose life's hardships were invented to fill the vast, empty space left by comfort.
"Well, if it isn't the pale boy," he sneered, his voice a nasal drawl designed to carry. "Have you come to beg for food? Did your woodcutting fail to find even kindling? Or," he smirked, looking Han Li up and down, "have you finally come to your senses to work for my father in the fields? We could use another pair of skinny arms, even if they're as weak as rotten twigs."
A hot, razor-sharp spike of anger flashed through Han Li. It was a familiar insult, but tonight, it scraped across a raw nerve laid bare by new hope and the memory of green cloth. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. The urge to drive one into that smug, round face was a pure, physical pulse.
He took a slow, inward breath, pulling the air deep into his core. In his mind, his own thoughts echoed with a strange clarity, as if from a distance. Calm. He is nobody. A grub in the soil. Just vermin with a full belly and an empty head. His power is his father's coins, and that is a rusting shield. To exterminate such pests… to sweep them aside without a thought… is this not the very reason to wish for a cultivator's power?
Han Li said nothing. He lifted his gaze, meeting Wang Chan's eyes—not with a challenge, but with a flat, dispassionate assessment, as if studying a strange, particularly noisy insect on a leaf. He saw the confidence there, the expectation of fear or flustered retort.
The silence stretched between them, becoming heavier and more pointed than any shouted insult. The ordinary dusk sounds of the village seemed to fade. Then, with a deliberate, excruciating slowness that was its own profound insult, Han Li stepped neatly around the larger boy. His shoulder brushed past Wang Chan's without force, without acknowledgment, as if passing a stump or a stone. He continued his walk, his pace unchanged, his back a silent wall of indifference.
The lack of reaction—the utter, complete dismissal—acted like a hand around Wang Chan's throat. The boy's next taunt died, strangled before it was born. A flush of furious crimson spread from his neck to his cheeks. He was left sputtering not at a rebuttal, but at a void, standing alone in the gathering twilight as Han Li's figure receded, untouched.
---
Old Zhang's house was well-kept, the wood oiled, the small vegetable garden tidy. The old man himself, with a beard like fallen snow and eyes that had seen decades of village drama, welcomed Han Li in without surprise. Over cups of weak, bitter tea, Han Li confirmed every detail, stripping away the embellishments. The physician, Doctor Mo, was real and had sent word ahead. The selection was real, scheduled for the day after next. The rumors of cultivation and immense age were heavily implied, woven into the official request for candidates. Old Zhang spoke of the doctor's reputation for a stern, unforgiving demeanor and impossibly high standards—a mixture of warning and encouragement aimed at a boy he'd always thought was too clever for his circumstances.
Heart pounding with a new, focused anxiety, Han Li returned home. The encounter with Wang Chan was a fading ripple; the ocean of tomorrow was all that mattered. He drew water, heated it, and scrubbed himself with uncommon thoroughness, as if washing away not just forest grime but the very skin of his old life. As true dusk fell, painting the room in deep blues and long shadows, he put on the new green robe once more.
In the dim light, without a mirror, he could only judge by the feel—the way the fabric moved with him, the way it settled on his frame. He stood straighter, his shoulders pulled back unconsciously. The faint, blurred reflection in the dark window pane showed a stranger: features sharper in the low light, the gauntness looking more like austerity, the eyes holding a watchful depth that hadn't been there before. Touched by possibility. He carefully took the robe off, folded it, and placed it like a talisman beside his bedroll.
Lying in the loft's consuming darkness, the day tumbled through his mind in fragments: the empty jar, the heavy sack, the feel of the robe, the word cultivate, Wang Chan's stifled fury, Old Zhang's solemn nod. His fingers found the small tower pendant, warm now from the heat of his skin. Mother, Father… is this the path? Will I be selected? Do I have the spiritual roots, or just the stubbornness of a weed?
In his mind's eye, he rehearsed tomorrow. He saw himself standing before the stern, grey-clad Doctor Mo. A fleeting, whimsical daydream surfaced, a release valve for the pressure: him seizing the old man's wrist with a bold laugh, saying, "Are you serious, old man? I'll take your pulse! Give me five taels and I'll prescribe you a strength pill for your grim demeanor!"
The absurd fantasy evaporated, leaving behind the cool, hard marble of strategy. Should I offer ginseng as a gift? No. Too blatant, too much like a bribe from a desperate upstart. Common herbs. Mistletoe, dried dandelion root, maybe some well-prepared honeysuckle. To show foundational knowledge and humility. Yes.
With this practical decision, the frantic, circling energy in his chest finally settled. The hope did not vanish; it condensed. It was no longer a wild fire, but a quiet, steady ember banked at his core—a single point of light marking a path forward, narrow and fraught with unseen turns, but visible, truly visible, for the very first time.
With the cool metal of the pendant pressed firmly into his palm, Han Li closed his eyes, and willed himself into the waiting silence of sleep. The dawn would bring the square, the crowd, and the first true test of a new fate.