The silence Jinhai left behind wasn’t empty. I could feel Daeryon thinking.

  His heartbeat merged with the slow breath of the fire, a rhythm that had memorized the tempo of waiting.

  Daeryon hadn’t moved from the throne. The fire had burned low, more ember than flame. His eyes caught the dull light like metal beneath water, still, but alive.

  I lifted my voice out of the hush between us. “I think we can speed things up,” I said. “Jinhai dealt with the external threats. What’s left are the elders and those shadowy figures. If my memory serves me correctly, they’re tied to the North somehow, but I can’t remember where exactly. That’s the problem. We can’t just wander north for weeks, hoping luck will do the work.”

  Daeryon moved a single hand, his fingertip tracing a line through the air as if sketching a map only he could see. “You’re right,” he said softly. “We’d be chasing smoke.”

  He leaned back, his gaze turning distant. “Still... there’s someone who might find them.”

  I tilted my head. “Who?”

  Daeryon’s eyes narrowed, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Zhuyin.”

  The name seemed to settle into the room like an old song that hadn’t been played in years.

  “I could ask him to search for me there,” Daeryon went on. “He wanders the world anyway, refusing both comfort and duty, a blade without a sheath, wasting every dawn on the next horizon. He left his sect years ago just to drift between ruins and taverns. I don’t know what he’s looking for, maybe nothing at all.”

  He exhaled slowly. “But if I asked, he’d come. He never refused me before.”

  I laughed. “You talk about him like a friend you never managed to understand.”

  Daeryon let out a dry hum. “That’s because I don’t. Zhuyin is... deliberate in the ways he disappears.”

  He rose from the throne, slow, measured, the dim light folding around his silhouette. “If those figures have taken root in the north, he’ll find their trail. The man could track silence if it dared leave a footprint.”

  The words lingered, the air thick with quiet momentum, plans beginning to take shape.

  Daeryon crossed to the far side of the chamber, where brazier light bled over an old desk scarred by the marks of a hundred sealed scrolls.

  He drew one from the stack, a thin parchment, folded tight with age, and dipped his brush into the dark ink.

  His writing was deliberate, strokes sharp, steady, alive. Each mark felt like held breath, then release.

  The faint scent of resin rose as ink bled into parchment, Zhuyin’s forest lingering here, summoned by Daeryon’s memory.

  “What will you tell him?” I asked.

  “Enough,” Daeryon said. “Not everything. Zhuyin knows what questions to ask without me handing him the answers.”

  Without looking up, he said, “He’ll recognize the scent of deception. He always did.”

  The ink dried quickly in the cooling air. Daeryon folded the paper into thirds, sealed it with red wax, then pressed the Kang Sect’s signet into it, an old dragon curling around flame.

  When he rose again, his chi pulsed through the chamber, a low vibration rippling across the floor, gentle yet deep enough to shake dust from the rafters.

  A breath later, the air by the open window stirred.

  Wings broke the quiet.

  A black-feathered hawk swept in through the light, landing neatly on the window’s edge. Its eyes burned gold and sharp, fixed on Daeryon alone.

  He tied the letter to its leg, murmuring low. Before letting it go, his hand brushed its feathers, gentle, almost reverent. “Find him.”

  The hawk gave a single cry, then launched into the twilight, its wings cutting the dusk like a promise.

  Daeryon’s gaze followed it until it vanished beyond the ridge. Only then did he turn to me.

  “If anyone can bring us word from the dark, it’s him,” he said quietly. “But Zhuyin doesn’t move fast, he follows his own pace, never mine.”

  For a moment, the chamber seemed to breathe again. The embers shifted. Shadows changed shape.

  I smirked faintly. “So... we wait?”

  Daeryon nodded once, his eyes drifting back to the window. “Yes. We wait, and prepare.”

  The air in the chamber thinned back to stillness.

  Outside, the last light sank behind the mountains, and the world slipped into deep blue.

  The torches dimmed; the wax seal cooled on the desk.

  Daeryon’s voice came softer, half to himself, half to me. “When the hawk returns, the sect will not be quiet anymore.”

  I tried to break the weight in the air with a grin. “Then we’ve got some time to kill. You’ve got your wife and kids, the damned elders, the whole mountain, what do you even do when you’re not drowning in paperwork?”

  Daeryon’s gaze drifted from the window to me. A faint sound, almost a laugh, stirred in his chest. “Before you came here? Nothing worth speaking of. Paperwork. Patrols. The kind of silence that forgets what it’s for.”

  He went quiet again, thought flickering across his face. “But now...” His voice softened, almost private. “Now I think I know what to do with free time.”

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  He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

  After a heartbeat, he looked back at the window. “For now, I can give you some of that time. Our training was cut short before, let’s fix that.”

  Daeryon’s words lingered in the air, light but edged with meaning. I tilted my head, unsure of how to thank him but before I could, he was already moving.

  “Come,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet finality that made my words fade before they formed.

  I followed him down the long stone path leading toward the mountain’s heart. Every step felt like a memory repeating itself.

  The runes carved along the walls pulsed faintly as we passed, as though recognizing us again.

  By the time we reached the training chamber, the air had changed, cooler, heavier, carrying that same humming silence I remembered.

  The crystals above cast a pale light across the walls, painting the floor with their quiet glow.

  “It feels smaller,” I said softly.

  He smiled faintly. “That’s because you’ve grown.”

  Daeryon stepped into the center of the chamber. The air stilled around him, as if it too waited for command.

  “You already know how to circle your chi,” he said, calm, clear. “That’s your foundation, though it takes years to master. What you need now are the roots, the basics that turns into growth.”

  I nodded, posture straight but eyes sharp with curiosity.

  “Close your eyes,” Daeryon said. “Don’t force the energy. Let it listen. Your chi is like water, it follows the vessel’s shape only when the vessel is steady.”

  I obeyed. The chamber’s glow dimmed behind my eyelids as I breathed in slow rhythm. For a while, silence was whole, then Daeryon’s voice returned, low and even.

  “Good. Now push it outward, beyond your skin. Let it taste the air.”

  My brow tightened as black chi shimmered faintly over my shoulders, rough and unsteady, like smoke fighting its shape.

  “Not bad,” Daeryon murmured. “But don’t chase control, let awareness lead.”

  The glow steadied, spreading like mist before flickering out. I exhaled sharply, feeling sweat beading along my neck.

  “I said awareness, not panic,” Daeryon said dryly.

  I cracked one eye open. “Easy for you to say, you look like the air is afraid to move without your permission.”

  Daeryon’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “The air learned its lesson long ago. Try again.”

  We repeated the motion. Time stretched thin, breath, motion, correction. Each failure stung less; each success arrived quieter, cleaner.

  After a long while, Daeryon shifted stance, raising his hand. “Great, now, resonance. Every cultivator’s chi carries a tone, a sound that belongs only to them. You’ll use it to align with the world’s rhythm. Listen.”

  I frowned. “A sound? Really I can't hear anything.”

  “Not with your ears,” Daeryon said. “With your pulse.”

  I placed a hand over my heart, focusing. At first there was only the thud of blood and the steady ring of Daeryon’s presence.

  Then, slowly, something softer surfaced, a faint hum beneath thought. It shivered through my chest, fragile as thread.

  “I hear it,” I whispered.

  Daeryon nodded. “Anchor it. Let it flow through your spine, down to your feet.”

  I tried, and the hum shattered, vanishing into static. My eyes snapped open. “Damn it. It’s gone.”

  “That’s normal,” Daeryon said. “The moment you try to hold it, it slips, like a fish breaking the surface.”

  I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “So I just... don’t hold it?”

  “Smart, you recognize it quickly,” Daeryon said. “Knowing something exists can be stronger than controlling it.”

  The lesson lingered. We worked until the torches dimmed and the air tasted faintly of ozone and exhaustion.

  My control grew sharper, steadier; the hum returned once or twice, slipping through me like wind learning my name.

  Finally, Daeryon lowered his hand. “That’s enough for tonight. Cultivation isn’t about speed, it’s about patience.”

  “You make it sound poetic on purpose, don’t you?” I said, half teasing, half meaning it.

  Daeryon’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Poetry isn’t deliberate. It happens when words stop being enough. The body learns faster than thought, if you let it.”

  I leaned back on my palms, chest still rising from the effort. “Yeah, but I want to learn something else, something more than roots and circles. A technique I can use while circling my chi.”

  He regarded me quietly, then that faint, almost invisible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re already walking, Daniel. Why are you trying to run?”

  Then, slower, like a hand reaching across ice, he added, “... All right. I’ll teach you something simple. Something you can do while circling your chi. It won’t break the world, but it will give it shape. Focus, and listen.”

  I leaned in without thinking.

  “Dragon Coil Step,” he said, the words rolling from his mouth as if they already knew the motion. “A dance of spirals and pivots. Imagine a dragon coiling through air and stone. Step, turn, shift, and never lose balance. Your momentum is your shield; your unpredictability, your weapon. Nothing more.”

  I laughed. “That sounds… like it should be harder than it sounds.”

  Daeryon’s gaze softened but never wavered. “Easy to say. Hard to do. You’ll start slow.”

  I thought, Dragon Coil Step… that sounds like a scaled down version of Obsidian Dragon Flow. I wouldn’t even dream of using it without mastering my chi first. So, slow it is.

  He demonstrated first, the motions fluid and hypnotic, a gentle spiral through open space. Each pivot seemed effortless, yet every step carried weight and purpose. My chi pulsed at the sight, eager to move, eager to join.

  I mirrored him, starting small, legs tense, feet brushing the ground with careful precision. I circled my chi, feeling it swirl beneath my skin like liquid steel, and tried the first coil step. My body wobbled, but I stayed upright. A small victory, but mine.

  “Good,” Daeryon said, nodding once. “Faster now. Let your chi guide your pivot. Let it flow through your spine and arms, not just your legs. You’re part of the motion, not chasing it.”

  I tried again, faster this time. The first turn spun me too far; the second threw my chi off balance, and I hit the ground.

  The rhythm shattered, frustration clawing up my chest. I slammed my palm against the floor, breath shaking. “Why can’t I get it right?”

  Daeryon’s shadow fell over me. “Do not be impatient. You’re learning a language, not carving lines in dirt. Every misstep is a word you’ll one day speak.”

  I squared my shoulders, circling my chi again, heat building in my hands and feet. My muscles remembered the last attempt; my body felt the pattern without thought. I stepped, pivoted, coiled, and—

  This time, I landed balanced, chi humming steady, the pivot so smooth it felt endless. My heart raced, pride breaking through like sunlight between clouds.

  Daeryon’s eyes held mine. “Yes. That’s the Dragon Coil Step. Feel it, don’t force it. The motion lives in you now, a spark waiting to grow.”

  I exhaled, letting the chamber swallow my laugh. “It… it works. I did it.”

  Daeryon inclined his head, quiet approval in the tilt. “You stumbled on the other turns, yes, and you’ll stumble again. But you’re walking. Let that be enough today. Practice will coil the rest.”

  I circled my chi once more, feeling it move with my feet, imagining dragons spiraling through stone and shadow.

  I was small, yes, but in those coils, I could already feel the promise of motion, of balance, of something greater.

  The chamber exhaled with me. Light shifted, and the air seemed to move with the rhythm of my chi, slow, steady, circling.

  Above the treetops, a hawk cried once, then again, its wings slicing through gold as it climbed higher and higher.

  The world seemed to follow its flight, over ridges and rivers, across miles of quiet wilderness, until the sun broke the clouds and the air turned warm again.

  The forest light was gentle today, all gold and dust. I sat with a pot of tea cooling beside me, the steam curling up in thin threads that caught the sun. It smelled faintly of pine and smoke, bitter, grounding. Just the way I liked it.

  I took a sip, warmth spreading through my chest. For a moment, everything was still, the trees, the breeze, even the thoughts trying to rise in the corners of my mind. I breathed with the quiet.

  Then the air shifted. A shadow swept across the clearing, swift, sure.

  When I looked up, a black hawk cut through the light, its wings catching fire in the sun. It landed a few paces away, claws scraping lightly against stone.

  “Well,” I murmured, setting my cup down. “Didn’t think he’d reach for me. He’s usually too busy running his sect.”

  The bird waited, sharp, patient. I reached for the letter tied to its leg, fingers brushing rough parchment. I didn’t open it right away. Just sat there, the world holding its breath with me.

  I looked toward the far ridge, where the sky met the old road we once walked together. Funny how the light never changes in those memories.

  “Anything,” I said softly. “For my only friend.”

  The wax cracked beneath my thumb.