My second birthday arrived with the spring blossoms, marked by Father's booming laughter and Mother's quiet pride. Unlike other children my age who struggled with basic words, I spoke in clear, simple sentences—a fact that both delighted and slightly unnerved my parents.
"Thank you," I said carefully when Mother presented me with a new wooden toy, carved by Master Wu. Her sapphire eyes widened slightly at my precise pronunciation, while Father's green eyes sparkled with pride.
"Did you hear that, Lin!?" he exclaimed, smiling with a look of great pride for his son. "Clear as a temple bell, I told you he was special!"
The toy, a simple wooden horse, provided an unexpected benefit. By holding it during meditation, I discovered that wooden objects could help stabilize the flow of raw mana as I refined it into spiritual energy, albeit an insignificant amount.
Through my now-clear vision, as time passed, I continued to observe the village's mana flows. The crude energy in most villagers' meridians remained unchanged, but Elder Ming was different. Unlike others whose meridians I could easily observe, her channels seemed shrouded, hidden from my spiritual sense. This peculiarity made me even more curious about the old healer, though I carefully kept this observation to myself.
"You see much for one so young," she commented one day, catching me watching her prepare medicines. Her silver eyes held mine with unexpected intensity. "The patterns in the air, the flow through the meridians—you understand more than you should."
I nodded, seeing no point in denying it. "The energy moves differently for different people."
She smiled a warm smile, her grey eyes turning to the shape of crescent moons, an expression that transformed her weathered face. "Indeed it does, little sage."
---
During my third year, I began spending mornings with Father in the fields. Though Mother worried I was too young, Father would carry me on his shoulders, pointing out the different crops with obvious pride. Through these visits, I learned that our family tended three main fields: one for rice, one for wheat, and a smaller plot for vegetables.
"Rice needs water and patience," Father explained, his large hands gesturing at the flooded paddies. Through my spiritual senses, I could see how the standing water acted as a natural conductor for raw mana, creating patterns that the rice plants instinctively followed as they grew. "Too much water drowns them, too little makes them weak. Just like raising a child, eh?" He tickled my feet, making me laugh.
The wheat field taught me different lessons. These hardy plants drew earth mana up through their roots, their golden stalks swaying with invisible energy. Father didn't know it, but his yearly rotation of crops helped maintain the field's mana balance. Rice gathered water energy, wheat gathered earth energy, and the soil grew richer with each cycle.
"These have been our family's fields for three generations," Father said one morning, his crimson hair blazing in the sunrise. "Your grandfather taught me every secret of this soil." He paused, green eyes twinkling. "Though sometimes I think you see things even he didn't know."
He was right. Through careful observation, I noticed how different crops created distinct mana patterns. The vegetable plot demonstrated this most clearly—carrots drew energy in straight lines, while pumpkin vines created spiral patterns remarkably similar to my breathing technique. Beans seemed to create tiny nodes of concentrated mana where their roots knotted, leading me to wonder if cultivators had learned some of their arts from observing such natural phenomena.
Most fascinating was watching Father work. Though he never spoke of mana or energy, his body unknowingly moved harmoniously with the field's natural flows. Years of farming had taught him exactly when to plant, when to water, and when to harvest.
"Watch closely," he'd say, demonstrating how to test soil readiness by touch. I watched both his physical movements and the swirls of earth mana that responded to his experienced hands. "The land speaks to those who listen."
These morning lessons, though simple, deepened my understanding of how raw mana behaved in nature. The crops showed how even the simplest plants could gather, channel, and use energy for growth. Father's instinctive farming techniques demonstrated how humans could work with these energies, even without formal cultivation.
After the morning field work, every 5 days, on market day I paid special attention, piecing together knowledge of the world beyond our fields. The merchants who visited our village brought more than just goods—they carried stories that painted a broader picture of this world.
One trader, an old man with a jade pendant, spoke of spirit beasts in the northern forests. "Not like normal animals," he explained to a crowd of wide-eyed villagers. "These creatures understand mana instinctively. Even the weakest can empower themselves with natural energy." He described a fox with three tails that could manipulate flames, and deer whose antlers glowed with moonlight. Through his tales, I learned that spirit beasts could naturally refine mana into spiritual energy—a process I was struggling to achieve through careful practice.
Another merchant, a woman who traded medicinal herbs with Elder Ming, brought news of cultivation families in larger settlements. "The Zhang family in River Town has a son who showed signs of talent," she said. "They sold their land to send him to a sect." This sparked debates among the villagers about whether such gambles were worth the risk. Father shook his head at such tales, but I noticed him watching me thoughtfully afterward.
Most intriguing were stories of wandering cultivators. Unlike sect members who lived in grand mountain estates, these solitary practitioners traveled between villages, offering services in exchange for resources or knowledge. Some were healers, others helped with crops or construction, and a few were said to be capable of incredible feats.
"Saw one call down lightning to clear a fallen mountainside," claimed a silk merchant, though such tales grew more fantastic with each retelling. Still, these stories helped me understand the practical applications of cultivation in this world. It wasn't just about personal power—it was a force that could reshape the environment itself.
The village children gathered their own legends, whispered during play times I occasionally was forced to join despite my reluctance. They spoke of immortal cultivators living in palaces above the clouds, and ancient beast kings hiding in the deepest parts of the forest. While clearly exaggerated, these tales often held kernels of truth about cultivation that even the tellers didn't recognize.
Through these stories, I began to piece together the broader cultivation world. There seemed to be distinct paths: the structured training of sects, the practical applications of wandering cultivators, and the intuitive methods of spirit beasts. Each approached the refinement of mana differently, yet all sought to transform raw energy into something greater.
This knowledge made me increasingly aware of our village's isolation. We sat at the edges of civilization, far from formal cultivation resources. Yet perhaps this isolation had advantages—Elder Ming's mysterious presence suggested that powerful cultivators sometimes chose seclusion for their own purposes.
---
As I approached my fourth birthday, I noticed Elder Ming watching me more intently during my visits. She asked subtle questions about what I could see and sense, nodding thoughtfully at my answers. Her own energy remained a mystery to me—a constant reminder that there was much more to learn about this world's powers.
Finally, one spring evening, she visited our home.
"Your son has a gift," she said simply, sitting cross-legged on our worn floor mat. "I would like to train him properly when he turns four."
Mother's hands stilled on her loom, her auburn hair gleaming in the fading light. She turned to speak to Elder Ming, "Train him? But he's so young..."
"He sees what others cannot," Elder Ming continued. "Surely you've noticed? The way he watches the world, how he speaks, how plants seem to thrive under his touch?"
Father set down his soup bowl, his expression unusually serious. "We have noticed. He's different from other children—special." Pride colored his voice. "Like you've always been, Elder Ming."
"With proper guidance, he could walk the path of a true healer. Perhaps..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...perhaps even more."
Mother had an indistinguishable look of nervousness and worry on her face. "But four is so young... Spending time with his father in the fields is one thing but this…"
"He will still live here," Elder Ming assured her. "I merely ask for his mornings, to teach him what I know." Her silver eyes met mine. "If he wishes it."
"I do," I said quietly, my clear voice drawing everyone's attention. "I want to learn."
Father's laugh broke the tension. "Always so certain, my little cultivator!" He turned to Mother. "Lin, you've seen how he is already, he is destined for greater things. And who better to guide him than Elder Ming?"
Mother looked at me for a long moment, her sapphire eyes searching. Finally, she nodded. "After his fourth birthday, then."
As I lay in bed that night, listening to my parents' quiet conversation, I reflected on this new opportunity. Elder Ming knew more than she revealed—that much was certain. Perhaps under her guidance, I could begin to understand not just the mysteries of healing, but the true nature of cultivation in this world.