The darkness was still thick when Sultan opened his eyes.
He didn't need sunlight to wake up. Five years in the High Sky Wing had taught him that dawn doesn't arrive with golden rays alone, but with that subtle ache in the bones, that forced awakening that snatches sleep from the eyelids as if an invisible hand shakes the soul before the body.
He sat up abruptly. He breathed deeply, a long inhale and a slower exhale, as he had trained himself to do every morning. Then he placed his hand on his chest.
There, beneath the skin and bones, beneath the threadbare shirt covering his thin body, there was something... warm. Not pain, not the heat of illness, but a hidden warmth, as if a tiny drop of sun had settled inside his heart one distant night, grown there, and become a part of him.
He had felt it for months. At first, he thought it was a hallucination born of hunger, then he grew accustomed to it. On cold days, the warmth increased slightly; on ordinary days, it remained faint, like a distant memory. Today, it was stronger than usual. Perhaps because the weather was bitterly cold, or because his body had been exhausted by yesterday's sweeping more than any day before.
He looked around.
The room was no more than three square meters. Its walls were gray stone, topped with layers of dampness and mold. In one corner, a narrow wooden bed barely fit his thin body, its mattress made of dry straw that creaked with every movement. In the opposite corner, a small, rickety table held a chipped clay pot and an old candle that was no longer lit because tallow had become a luxury he couldn't afford.
And in the farthest corner, an old wooden chest.
The chest was the only valuable thing in this room. Not because it was precious, but because it contained the only precious thing in Sultan's life.
He stared at the chest for a few seconds, then reached his hand towards its top edge. His dark, dry fingers, with their short, cracked nails, touched the wood gently. The wood was as cold as ice.
He lifted the lid.
Inside the chest, beneath a tattered garment he had worn years ago, there was a small picture. A smiling woman. A warm, tender smile, overflowing with life.
His mother.
He lifted the picture with extreme care, as if it were made of fragile glass. He looked at it for a long time. Her face was blurry in his actual memory, but the picture was clear. Her long black hair, her wide, kind eyes, her smile that promised him everything would be alright. He was six years old when she left. Only six. He remembered that day: the funeral gathering, the weeping women, the silent, standing men. He remembered his father, Majid, standing like a statue, not crying, not speaking, not looking at him. He remembered his nine siblings, some crying, some just watching. And he remembered himself alone in a corner, not understanding why his mother had stopped moving, why her eyes were closed forever.
He hadn't been alright. He hadn't been alright since that day.
He gently returned the picture to the chest. Beside it was a small silver ring. Her ring. He took it and wore it for a moment, felt the cold metal sting his finger, then put it back. He never dared to wear it always. It might get lost, or someone might break it, or someone might ask him about it. The ring was the only thing proving he had a past, that he had a mother, that he had a life before this life.
He closed the chest. He stood up. He put on his worn-out garment. The robe had been blue in the distant past, but now it was grayish-white from excessive washing and mending. Its sleeves were frayed, its collar uneven, but it was somewhat warm.
He walked to the door.
The door was heavy wood; its hinges creaked, filling the silence every morning. He pushed it gently, and it swung wide open.
Outside, the courtyard was still semi-dark. The sky was a grayish-blue, and the sun hadn't risen yet. Faint lights crept from the elders' buildings on the distant horizon, from those beautiful stone edifices with colored glass windows. There, in those buildings, lived the real disciples. Those who had reached the rank of Primary Element, who had teachers, warm bedding, and hot food every day.
As for him, he was in the servants' building.
He took the broom from the corner of the courtyard. An old wooden broom, its bristles worn, its handle smooth from years of use. This broom was his daily companion. Every morning, he grasped it and began his long journey around the square.
He started from the far corner, where no one passed at this early hour.
The wooden bristles scraped against the stone floor with a regular sound: Shhh... Shhh...
This morning was the fourteenth since the last point distribution. In three days, a new date would come. He would get another ten points. Ten points enough for one mediocre meal, or five loaves of stale bread, or a small portion of a cheap cultivation pill.
He thought about the evenings he spent in the Contribution Hall. He loved going there, not because he had money, but because he watched. He watched the other disciples as they exchanged their points for cultivation pills and combat techniques. They placed their points on the table with confidence, taking what they wanted as if they owned the world. Some spent hundreds of points in a single day, buying potions, pills, and light weapons.
As for him... he saved his points for months to buy a single healing potion if he got sick.
Shhh... Shhh...
He continued sweeping.
After about an hour, the sun began to appear slowly behind the distant mountains. Thin golden threads pierced the gray sky, gradually illuminating the courtyard. Sultan stopped for a moment, contemplating the scene. The view was always beautiful, the sunrise behind the mountains, the golden light covering the gray stones, giving them temporary warmth.
At that moment, he felt the warmth in his chest powerfully.
Not like usual. It was much stronger. As if something wanted to get out, as if the tiny drop of sun inside his heart had suddenly grown larger. He put his hand on his chest, worried. He looked around. No one. Just the empty courtyard, the broom beside him, and the silent buildings on the horizon.
Seconds passed. The warmth began to subside, returning to its normal level.
Sultan sighed with relief. He didn't understand what this was. He once tried asking some elders; they chased him away, saying, "Don't waste our time, boy." He tried asking other disciples; they laughed at him and said, "Maybe you're dreaming, trial disciple." Even Muneer, the old man in the Contribution Hall, looked at him strangely when he asked, but he said nothing.
He stopped asking.
He gripped the broom firmly and continued sweeping.
Shhh... Shhh...
In the other corner of the courtyard, there was a large door made of thick oak. The door of the Contribution Hall. The place of his small dreams. There, points were distributed. There, the strong disciples gathered. There, good meals were sold, precious pills, and rare books.
Muneer was there too.
Muneer, the Wing's bursar, the old man who looked at him strangely every time he saw him. The man who had helped him a month ago when he stumbled and almost fell. The man who had said, "Watch out, boy," in a hoarse voice, then smiled a mysterious smile.
Sultan never knew why Muneer looked at him that way. At first, he thought it was pity, but the looks were deeper. As if Muneer saw him from the inside, as if he knew something about him that he himself didn't know.
He wished he could enter that hall as a real disciple. To have a voice that was heard, to exchange his points for a cultivation pill that would warm and strengthen his body, to feel for a moment that he was someone important.
But such a dream required first being an ordinary disciple. And that required three years of testing, and reaching the rank of Primary Element.
His third year was about to end. And he was still in the first stage of Qi.
He bowed his head and continued sweeping.
Shhh... Shhh...
Two hours later, when the sun had fully risen, Sultan had finished sweeping the entire courtyard. He put the broom in its place, wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was tired, his body ached, but this was the routine. Every day was the same.
He headed to the dining hall.
Inside, disciples were crowding. The smell of fresh bread wafted through the place, mixed with the aroma of grilled meat and hot broth. His stomach tightened sharply. He passed by the tables quickly, looking down, avoiding others' eyes.
In the far corner, beneath the small, broken window, there was a small wooden table with faded lettering: "For Trial Disciples." On it were three loaves of stale bread, a pitcher of cold water, and a little coarse salt.
He sat alone. None of the other trial disciples had come yet. He took a loaf, a small pinch of salt, and began to eat slowly. He chewed very slowly, trying to make the meal last as long as possible. Each bite took minutes; he chewed thoroughly then swallowed as if it were a precious treasure.
While eating, he heard laughter from the nearby table. Ordinary disciples having their breakfast comfortably. Among them was Harith, the disciple he had encountered days ago. A seventeen-year-old youth, narrow eyes, a perpetually mocking smile.
Harith looked his way, then deliberately raised his voice: "Look at the pathetic trial disciple. Eating stale bread as if it's a feast."
His followers laughed, three or four of them, echoing his words with mockery.
Sultan didn't raise his head. He continued eating in silence.
Harith wasn't satisfied. He stood and approached his table. He stood right in front of him, casting his shadow over Sultan, over the stale bread, over the pitcher of cold water.
"Don't you hear me, you worthless one?"
Sultan slowly raised his head. He looked at Harith with tired eyes, but they held something behind the fatigue. Something like a distant fire.
"I hear you."
"Then why don't you answer?"
"Do you want me to applaud your wit?"
Silence for a moment. The disciples glanced at each other. Harith's face reddened with anger. He stepped forward, almost reaching Sultan's neck.
"You..."
"Harith!"
A sharp voice came from the door. Everyone turned.
A girl stood there. Long black hair, piercing blue eyes like ice, a face as cold as a statue. She wore the robe of the basic female disciples, pure white embroidered with silver threads.
Suad.
She stood at the entrance, looking at them. Her gaze wasn't angry, nor even indignant. It was just a cold look, empty of any emotion, but it was enough to freeze the air in the hall.
Harith immediately stepped back. Even his followers retreated a few steps.
"The dining hall is not a battlefield. Go back to your seats."
Her words were short and sharp. She never looked at Sultan, only at Harith.
Harith nodded and returned to his table without a word.
Suad left without a backward glance.
Sultan remained alone at his table. He looked at his remaining loaf, then at the hall's door where Suad had disappeared. He felt something strange, a mix of gratitude and bewilderment. Why had she helped him? She didn't know him, didn't care about him.
He shook his head, returned to eating.
After the meal, he went out to the courtyard. He sat on a stone step beside the frozen fountain. The air was still cold, but the sun was slowly warming the stones. He placed his hand on the stone, felt its faint warmth. He contemplated the empty courtyard, the distant buildings, the clear blue sky.
He took from his pocket the small picture of his mother. It was another copy, smaller, which he always carried with him. He looked at it.
"You promised me I'd be a hero. Do you see me now?"
She didn't answer. She never would.
He put the picture back in his pocket. He stood. He walked towards the Contribution Hall. He had no points to exchange, but he loved sitting there. Watching others. Learning how the world around him worked.
He sat on a wooden bench in the corner, away from sight.
Disciples came and went. Some placed their points on the counter and took shimmering pills. Some bought combat techniques wrapped in old papers. Some argued with the staff over point values.
Meanwhile, he noticed the old man.
Muneer. He was sitting on a raised platform, behind his large wooden desk, watching the hall with half-closed eyes. But he wasn't asleep. His eyes moved slowly, tracking every movement in the hall.
Suddenly, his eyes met Sultan's.
It wasn't a coincidence. Sultan felt that Muneer had been watching him. Muneer stood up slowly, leaning on his wooden cane. He walked towards him, his steps slow but confident.
Sultan felt a sudden tension. Why was the bursar coming to him? He stood out of respect.
Muneer stopped in front of him, looked at him for a long time. A strange look, somewhat sad, as if he saw someone else in him.
"You're Sultan, aren't you?"
"Yes, elder."
"Don't call me elder. I'm just Muneer. Just an old man counting points."
He paused briefly. Then said: "Come with me."
Sultan followed him to a small room behind the hall. A simple room with two wooden chairs and a small table. On the table, a dim oil lamp and a pile of yellowed papers.
They sat.
Muneer looked at him again. Then he said: "You're not ordinary, boy."
Sultan froze. What did he know about him? What did he mean?
"Don't worry. I don't know everything. But I know that someone who lives in a cold room, wakes before everyone else, never gets sick despite the cold and hunger, and whose eyes remain bright despite everything... that one is not ordinary."
Sultan sighed with relief. He hadn't mentioned the pearl. He didn't know about it.
Muneer took a small cloth pouch from his pocket. He placed it on the table. Sultan heard the faint jingle of metal coins.
"These are 50 points. Take them."
Sultan raised his head, shocked. 50 points? That was more than he earned in two months of sweeping and hard work.
"But... why?"
Muneer looked at him with strange tenderness. A tenderness unfitting for an old stranger in a merciless world.
"Because my son was like you. He wanted to become strong, to prove himself. He dreamed of the stars. But he died before achieving his dream."
He paused for a moment. Then added in a lower voice:
"Don't die, boy. Be strong."
He pushed the pouch towards him. He stood slowly, leaning on his cane. He walked towards the door. Before leaving, he turned and said:
"Come to me whenever you need help. No one here will help you but me."
And he left.
Sultan remained alone in the small room, looking at the pouch in his hands. 50 points. Soft bread. Cultivation pills. Maybe even a techniques book. Maybe a chance.
For the first time in many years, he felt hope. A strange feeling, warm, resembling that warmth in his chest but different.
He carefully placed the pouch in his pocket. He stood. He walked towards the door. Before leaving, he looked at the sky through the small window.
The sun had fully risen. Golden light filled the world.
And for the first time in years, he smiled.
A small smile, faint, barely appearing on his lips, but it was a genuine smile.
At that moment, he felt the warmth in his chest again. This time, he wasn't afraid. He didn't panic. Instead, he placed his hand on his heart and whispered in a barely audible voice:
"I'm here. And I'll stay. I'll be strong."
At noon, he returned to his small room. He put the pouch under his pillow, then sat on the bed, contemplating. He thought about Muneer, about his words, about his dead son. He thought about Suad, about her mysterious coldness, about her sudden intervention. He thought about Harith, about his malice, about his looks.
Then he opened the old wooden chest again. He took out his mother's picture. He looked at it for a long time.
"You promised me I'd be a hero. Maybe... maybe it's time."
He returned the picture. Closed the chest.
Outside, the sun was tilting towards sunset. Tomorrow was a new day. Another day of sweeping, of work, of hunger. But now he carried 50 points in his pocket, Muneer's words in his heart, and a mysterious warmth in his chest.
He reached under the pillow, touched the pouch gently. Then he closed his eyes.
That night, he slept deeply. He slept without dreams, without nightmares. He slept like a child feeling for the first time that someone saw him, that someone wished him well.
He slept with his hand on his chest, where that mysterious warmth resided.
That warmth he still couldn't explain.
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