The dawn arrived not as an event, but as a slow, grey surrender of the darkness. Han Li opened his eyes to the pale light filtering through the loft's slats. He had not slept deeply, but his mind was preternaturally clear, scraped clean of dreams and polished to a still, reflective surface by the weight of the coming day.
He rose. His movements were deliberate, economical. He performed his morning ablutions with a focus that bordered on ritual, using water from the jar that was so cold it bit into his skin, sharpening every sense. He combed his jet-black hair back from his forehead, securing it with a plain cloth tie. The face in the dim, warped reflection of the water basin looked older, the angles of cheekbone and jaw more pronounced.
Then, he put on the green robe.
The fabric whispered as it settled over his shoulders. It felt substantial, its weight and drape entirely different from the loose, forgiving hemp of his old tunic. It hung straight and true, the deep pine-green color like a piece of the deepest forest brought indoors. In the gloom, without a mirror, he assessed the fit by the feel of the seams along his shoulders, the fall of the sleeves to his wrists. It was correct. It was not just clothing; it was a shell, a declaration. Armor.
Downstairs, the hearth's fire already crackled, painting the small main room in warm, dancing light and long, leaping shadows. His aunt turned from the grinding stone, her hands dusted with fine, pale flour from the new sack. She was shaping flatbreads. Her eyes met his as he descended the last step, and for a moment she simply stared, her hands stilling. Her expression shifted from the routine focus of morning work to something else—a quiet, startled awe.
"Li'er…" she began, her voice unusually soft, frayed with emotion. She shook her head slightly, as if clearing a vision, and a faint, wondering smile touched her lips. "You look… you look like one of those children from the old tales. The kind the mountain spirits steal away to their realms, or leave as changelings. You don't look of this earth just now. Come. Sit."
She gave him two pieces of the flatbread, warm from the stone and lightly browned at the edges. He ate slowly at the rough table, chewing each bite thoroughly, using the simple, good food to anchor himself in the reality of his body. When he was finished, she approached. Without a word, she reached out and smoothed the collar of the green robe, her work-roughened fingers gentle. It was a simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes. Then, she fetched her shawl, and together they joined his uncle at the door. The man stood straighter than usual, his face set in lines of grim pride. The three of them stepped out into the cool morning and walked toward the village square, a small, solemn procession through the waking lanes.
---
The square was a cauldron of humanity, a seething tumult of hope and fear.
It seemed every soul from the village and the outlying farms had converged, creating a dense, murmuring tapestry of weathered faces and finest holiday clothes. The air itself was thick—a layered soup of damp earth from recent rain, the pungent scent of human sweat born of anxiety, and the cloying, cheap smoke of incense sticks parents had lit at makeshift altars for luck. A palpable, nervous energy vibrated through the crowd, the collective pressure of a hundred suppressed dreams about to be weighed on a single, invisible scale.
As Han Li and his family edged forward through the press, fragments of conversation swirled around them like leaves in a eddy.
"It'll be Wang Chan, no doubt. His family's donated half a stone of silver to the temple. The heavens will favor them."
"Ming Xue has the cleverest hands.She mended my pot so fine you can barely see the seam. Gentle, precise. A healer's touch."
"Old Zhang's granddaughter,Zhang Ting. She has a healer's patience, sits with the sick. Calm as a deep pool."
Then,a lower, more observant murmur from near Han Li's elbow, "What about the Han boy? The one in the green. He's always been sharp-eyed, quiet. And look at him now… he doesn't seem of this place. Stands like a young pine."
A louder, dismissive voice cut through like a cleaver—Wang Chan's uncle, a man with a face perpetually set in a scowl of discontent. "A pretty robe is not a skill! Pretty faces catch the eye, then disappoint. Real talent requires backing, requires nourishment, requires strength! What does a woodcutter's nephew, who digs in the dirt for roots, know of the exalted healing arts?"
Han Li heard the words. He let them wash against the steady, deliberate calm he had constructed within himself. He felt his aunt's hand tighten briefly on his arm, a flash of protective anger, but he did not look at her or the speaker. He kept his gaze forward, fixed on the center of the square.
They found a place near the front, yielding a clear line of sight. In the center of all that human commotion stood an island of stark, unsettling simplicity: a single, unvarnished wooden table and a plain, high-backed chair. Upon the chair sat the man who held all their fates.
Physician Xiao.
The man appeared to be in his sixties, but it was a lean, weathered, potent sixty. His robe was of simple grey hemp, spotlessly clean but utterly without adornment, a statement in its austerity. His iron-grey hair was pulled into a severe, tight topknot. His face was all angles and planes—a prominent nose, a sharp jaw, thin lips—and his eyes were dark, watchful, and deeply set, missing nothing. On the table before him rested the sole object of judgment: a crystal, roughly the size of two clasped hands. It was a deep, opaque blue, like a piece of hardened twilight or a frozen chunk of a moonless night sky.
The physician raised a thin, long-fingered hand. The effect was instantaneous. The crowd's noise subsided, collapsing into a thick, expectant hush so complete the rustle of cloth sounded loud.
"This one is Physician Xiao," he stated. His voice was dry, precise, carrying to the very edges of the square without seeming to strain, yet it offered no warmth, no comfort. "I have traveled a long road to be here. My purpose is singular: to select my final disciple. We will not waste the daylight."
He leaned forward slightly and tapped a fingernail against the surface of the blue crystal. A clear, sharp tock rang out in the silence, a sound of finality.
"The test is simple. You will approach in turn, as called. Place your hand, palm flat, upon this Spirit Inquiry Crystal. If you possess the requisite potential, it will emit light. The nature and strength of the light will be noted. That is the only criterion."
A ripple of confusion and disbelief passed through the crowd. That's it? someone whispered, the words carrying in the quiet. No questions? No tests of knowledge or character?
Physician Xiao's lips thinned into a humorless, knowing smile. "That is it. The truth of one's potential is not found in recited texts or practiced manners. It is woven into the spirit. The crystal sees what eyes cannot. Begin."
---
The first to stride forward, brimming with a confidence that was half his own and half borrowed from his family's status, was Wang Chan. His broad shoulders pushed through the onlookers who readily gave way. A wave of approving whispers followed him like a retinue. "A martial prodigy! Look at his stance!" "It's settled. The physician will see his vigor."
Wang Chan stopped before the table and offered a deep, showy bow, his arms sweeping wide. "This unworthy one greets the esteemed Physician! This humble one is Wang Chan, and I—"
"Your hand," Physician Xiao interrupted, his tone flat, utterly dismissing the theatrical performance.
A flush crept up Wang Chan's neck. He straightened, stepped to the table, and placed his thick, calloused palm flat on the crystal with an audible slap. He stared at the stone, his face contorting with intense, visible effort, as if he could will the light into being through sheer force of ambition.
One second.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
The blue stone remained dark, inert, and unresponsive. It was just a rock.
"Next," Physician Xiao said, flicking his fingers in a slight, dismissive gesture without even looking at the boy.
Wang Chan's face drained of blood, then flooded back with a deep, mottled red of utter humiliation. His earlier swagger collapsed inward. He snatched his hand back as if scalded and retreated, his movements stiff, his eyes fixed on the ground, unable to meet the stares of the village.
The procession of hope continued, a slow-motion parade of diminishing returns.
Ming Xue, the girl with the clever fingers, approached with gentle grace. Her touch was feather-light. Nothing. Her hand left the stone as if it had suddenly grown cold enough to burn, and she hurried back to her mother, eyes downcast.
Zhang Ting, the calm granddaughter of Old Zhang, moved with deliberate serenity. She placed her hand, breathed slowly. Nothing. She offered a small, resigned bow to the physician and melted back into her family, her quiet dignity making her failure somehow more poignant.
One after another, the village's best and brightest touched the lifeless stone and stepped away, diminished. A butcher's strong son. A scribe's clever daughter. A farmer's lad known for his endurance. Each silent failure was a blow to the collective spirit of the place. The initial excitement curdled into a souring dread. Physician Xiao's expression, never warm, grew more closed, more weary with each attempt. He looked like a man sifting through river sand for a single grain of gold and finding only pebbles.
Finally, a slender, hollow-cheeked girl named Yu Neng, from a family on the poorest edge of the village, was nudged forward by a desperate-looking mother. The girl crept to the table, her entire frame trembling. She laid her thin, pale hand on the crystal as if afraid it might break.
For the briefest instant—a flicker so faint many in the crowd doubted their eyes—a light kindled deep within the stone's core. It was a sickly, dim orange, the color of a dying ember. It pulsed once, weakly, and vanished, swallowed by the overwhelming blue darkness.
"Next," the physician said, his voice flat, devoid of even a hint of encouragement.
But as the girl shrank back, her face a mask of ashamed relief, Han Li, standing close to the front, saw the old man's eyes close for a single, weary heartbeat. He caught the whisper, a thread of clinical, almost academic regret meant for no one but the air itself: "A withering spirit root. Consumed by its own mortal shell before it could ever breathe. Unfortunate."
---
Physician Xiao looked out over the sea of defeated, anxious faces. His own expression was one of profound, bone-deep disappointment. This was clearly his final stop on a long and fruitless journey. The hope in this place, like the girl's spirit root, had proven barren.
He straightened his already-straight back. "Is there anyone else?" he asked. The question hung in the still air like a verdict already delivered, the final roll call before a abandonment.
The silence was absolute, heavy with collective shame. Parents looked at their feet. Children stared, wide-eyed. The dream was over.
Han Li's heart beat a steady, heavy, drum-like rhythm against his ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump. This was the ledge. The moment between the solid cliff and the empty air.
He took a breath, deep and silent, filling the very bottom of his lungs. He stepped forward.
"Senior Physician." His voice, calm and clear, cut the silence like a knife. "A moment, please."
Every head in the square snapped around. All eyes found the source of the voice: a young man in a robe of deep, resilient pine-green, neatly separating himself from the crowd. The morning sun, now clear of the rooftops, seemed to choose him, illuminating him distinctly. The fine cotton of his robe held the light differently than the homespun around him, giving him a subtle nimbus. Against the muted palette of browns, faded blues, and greys, he was a single, vivid stroke of composed clarity.
"That's Han Li… the woodcutter's boy."
"He looks…different. Like he's from somewhere else."
"Look at his bearing.No fear."
Han Li heard none of it. His world had narrowed, tunnel-vision tight, to the space between himself and the old man at the table. The crowd became a blur of color and sound. He walked forward with measured steps, stopped at the prescribed distance, and offered a bow that was respectful in its depth but not subservient in its posture. He then raised his gaze to meet Physician Xiao's.
The physician's detached boredom vanished. Eradicated. His dark, weary eyes sharpened with a speed that was startling, focusing on Han Li with a hawk-like, penetrating intensity. He said nothing, merely gave the slightest incline of his chin: Proceed.
Without further ceremony, Han Li raised his right hand. He let it hover for a single heartbeat over the cool, perfectly smooth surface of the blue crystal, feeling a faint, magnetic pull, a hum below the threshold of sound. Then, he placed his palm flat upon it.
---
For one suspended, eternal moment, nothing.
The crowd held its breath as one organism.
Even the birds seemed to silence.
Then, deep within the stone's absolute, midnight center, a light kindled.
It was not a flash, not an explosion of glory. It was a slow, inevitable, organic welling, like clear, cold water rising irresistibly from a hidden spring in the earth's heart. A pure, steady azure luminescence, bright as a summer sky yet deep as a mountain tarn, grew from that single infinitesimal point. It spread, pulse by gentle pulse, through the crystal's labyrinthine depths until the entire stone glowed from within, transformed from a piece of hardened twilight into a vessel of captured daylight. It cast a soft, ethereal, blue-white radiance onto Han Li's resolved, impassive face and up onto Physician Xiao's now utterly, perfectly still countenance.
In the ringing, awe-struck silence of the square, the Spirit Inquiry Crystal pulsed once—a slow, full beat, like a heart made of light—its glow steady, deep, and undeniable.
A door, unlooked-for and hidden in the wall of the world, had just clicked open in the quiet.