Wind flowed like soft music through the mountains of Lumara's Age, carrying pollen that shone faintly with qi.
The sky had deepened to a gentler blue than in ancient times; the three suns drifted farther apart now, making longer days, quieter nights.
Forests swayed in slow rhythm, as if grateful for thought itself.
Dave opened his eyes to this horizon, standing at its edge once more.
Centuries, by his measure. Ages, by theirs.
He had not returned since the War of Rain, yet somewhere within him the echo of their hymns still slept.
His body now wore the face of a common wanderer—short‑haired, weather‑brushed, eyes the color of drying jade. An avatar no brighter than a man in his thirties, dressed in a gray traveler's robe.
Nothing divine clung to him; he had made sure of that.
He smiled faintly.
If they still named the Quiet One, they would never imagine this dusty traveler crossing the border under a patched cloak.
The New WorldCivilization had ripened like fruit.
Across valleys spread fields of winding crops: spiritless but lush, guided by irrigation channels that reflected the sky like mirrors.
Cities of white stone dotted hills, crowned with windmills that turned with the lazy grace of birds.
Everywhere he walked, spiral symbols lay etched into doorways and charms, the old Circle of Balance now stylized—an art rather than a creed.
Markets sang with mortal voices.
Banners fluttered bearing sayings half remembered from the ancient doctrine:
"The Wheel Spins, The Grain Returns."
"Keep the Breath Even."
He wandered among stalls selling fishlight paste and salted river fruit.
Vendors called prices in chants that were themselves a rhythm of breathing: three beats to praise, three to bargain—a cultural echo of the first meditation he had taught quietly to soldiers millennia ago without intending legend.
My whisper became their grammar, he thought.
Observer's PathDave spent weeks drifting through provinces, taking notes no one would read.
Every dawn he sketched plants: the Wind Pearl Vinethat glowed under moonlight; the Blueprism Mossthat absorbed thunder and released it as odorless smoke.
To mortals, these were simply strange weeds. To him, they were signals—the first veins of spirituality awakening inside matter.
The world itself was beginning to cultivate.
He smiled at the thought and pinched a bit of moss between his fingers, tasting the faint vibration against the mortal skin of his avatar.
"No harm in patience," he murmured, "the Dao grows like lichen."
He looked so ordinary that farmers passed him without a second glance.
Once, an old basket‑maker offered him bread for helping lift a fallen beam. Dave accepted, bowed, ate quietly, and left no trace.
To them he was no more than a soft‑spoken traveler with odd metaphors.
Just as he wished.
The First CultivatorsNear the shores of Lake Seth, he found a monastery built into cliffs of blue stone.
There, the descendants of the first Seekers of the Dawn trained in breathing arts so ancient they had become instinct.
Inside the halls drifted incense spirals thicker than mountain fog.
Disciplines sat cross‑legged, backs straight, eyes closed—each drawing faint wisps of qi from the air.
It was barely perceptible, thin as cobweb, yet real.
For a mortal to have reached Qi Refinement without divine supervision was like a seed sprouting in salt soil.
Dave hid among visitors, watching.
A teacher walked the rows in silence, adjusting postures with a staff. He murmured, "Balance your mind with the river's edge—neither faster nor slower."
The words echoed perfectly his long‑ago counsel to the woman in furs.
A karmic ripple rose around Dave, but he suppressed it, unwilling to light any signal that Heaven might notice.
He left a copper coin on the temple steps before bowing farewell—the mortal shape of a High Crystal Coin melted down into regular matter for disguise.
Inside, the teachers found it days later and claimed it a token of the old god's favor.
He pretended not to hear.
Whisper in the ForestFarther south lay wildlands where no temple bells reached.
There he walked under canopies older than faith.
Huge trees stretched skyward, roots as wide as city streets. They rustled with whispers, carrying the soft static of early spirituality.
When he pressed a hand against one trunk, sound vibrated through his palm—a language not made for ears.
We grow… remember us… we grow…
He closed his eyes, listening.
The trees didn't worship; they simply lived, expanding consciousness effortlessly.
Mortals fought for a drop of qi; forests received it as rain.
Dave sank to the roots, cross‑legged, breathing with them.
He felt his avatar's body pulse gently, the rhythm of the world's heart syncing with his own. Clouds thickened; evening descended like the hush between breaths.
A woodcutter stumbled upon him, startled. "Sir, you'll get drenched. Come to the hut."
Dave opened his eyes slowly. "Rain grows trees, friend. It won't kill a traveler."
The man blinked at the calm tone. "You sound like the monks of the lake."
"I listen like them perhaps."
He smiled, rose, and walked away before the woodcutter could invite more questions.
Behind him, the rain fell evenly, blessing both earth and axe.
The Scholar of BalanceWeeks later he reached the capital of Aereth, jewel of the continent's kingdoms.
Libraries filled with scrolls of the Balance School—philosophers arguing over whether the Quiet One had been literal or allegorical, god or collective dream.
Universities debated ratios for the "circle process," an alchemical symbol meaning cause = effect = renewal.
In taverns, students carved spirals on tables for good fortune.
Sitting among them and sipping thin rice wine, Dave listened to their theories:
"He descended and lived among us!"
"No, no, the Quiet One was never flesh. He's the wind's reflection."
"Nonsense. He was five beings fused into one—proof is in the geometry!"
He nearly laughed aloud. Truth becomes myth, myth becomes equation.
When asked for his opinion, he simply said,
"Maybe he was all of them—and none. Maybe balance means accepting that the question matters more than the answer."
They nodded, satisfied that he was another harmless eccentric scholar.
That night, as he left the tavern, a soft drizzle followed him—a small karmic thank‑you glittering above the rooftops.
Signs of AwakeningMonths passed within that world, though only a few heartbeats slipped by in Cloudmarket.
Dave noticed stronger vibrations each dawn: not only in people but in stones, water, even the wind.
The miniature realm had reached Qi Refinement as a collective consciousness.
Soon, individuals would touch Enlightenment Stage—the point where they'd sense Heaven directly.
He felt both pride and unease.
Would they start praying again to the Quiet One and pull him into revelation?
He couldn't allow that; reverence could stagnate creativity.
He decided to drift beyond populated lands, into regions still untamed, to see what the untouched world would do without theology's weight.
In the Desert of IriaThe desert bore the name of one of the Five Lights—a century‑old homage.
Red dunes shimmered under twin moons; air smelled of iron and silence.
Nomads crossed at night, their caravans like constellations.
Dave followed the wind until he found an oasis where small children played beside sulfur springs.
They greeted him with suspicion. "Stranger, no one comes this way without trade."
"I trade stories," he replied softly.
Parents allowed him near their fire. He told them a simple tale of a leaf learning to float instead of resisting the stream.
They laughed, thanked him, forgot him.
But one boy later tried balancing leaves in the pond; others copied him.
By morning, calm spread through the camp as laughter replaced exhaustion. Tiny karmic sparks shimmered above tents, unseen except by him.
"That's enough," he whispered, slipping away before dawn.
The ThreadWhen he finally returned to Cloudmarket, only moments had passed.
Mist still floated over the same stones. Old Qiu was playing dice with other beggars, cursing softly under his breath.
"You look different," Qiu said squinting.
"Maybe dust travels slower than men," Dave answered.
The old man grunted. "Poetry again. Did you at least win karma from it?"
"Enough to buy silence."
He dropped a High Crystal Coin into Qiu's gourd. The old beggar stared; the coin dissolved instantly, absorbed by the gourd's formation, leaving behind faint fragrance of rain.
"What—?"
"Payment for losing less faith today," Dave said, and smiled.
Qiu narrowed his eyes, but before he could ask, a gust of spirit wind carried fog between them. When it cleared, only footprints remained.
The Unseen TeacherInside his heart, the miniature world glowed softly—a living pearl.
From the highest monastery to the loneliest desert, mortals were discovering their own rhythms of qi.
A few had even broken through to Enlightenment, sensing Heaven dimly as a great balance rather than a person.
None guessed that their balance had a face sweeping alleys in an immortal city.
He whispered across the distance:
"Grow slow. Forget me entirely.
Truth tastes better when you think it yours."
The winds within answered not with words, but a rustle of trees moving like applause.
Dave exhaled. The vibration between the two realms settled into quiet harmony.
He extinguished his lamp, lay back on the mat, and felt both worlds drift into the same breath—one expanding toward spirituality, the other softening toward humility.
In the stillness between, an almost‑audible thought lingered:
The Dao teaches in silence;
The fool learns by watching it bloom.