(Ch. 23) Beneath the Clear Wind

The gates of Clear Wind Pavilion stood modest against the early winter fog—wooden, carved with gentle swirling patterns that resembled air currents or coiling clouds. Not grand like Mount Hwa's stone thresholds, but there was a certain quiet pride in the simplicity.

A young disciple in light blue robes approached as we neared the entrance. She bowed low, her voice calm.

"You bear the crest of Mount Hwa. Please, follow me."

Dan leaned over as we walked. "Why are their robes so clean? I've never met a clean sect before."

So-Yeon gave him a sideways look. "Because they sweep their courtyards. Something you've never done."

"I sweep!" Dan whispered. "Sometimes. Usually after getting yelled at."

We passed through garden paths trimmed with jade-colored stones, then under an archway into the main hall. Warm air met us there—scented faintly with incense and winter plum.

An older man, his beard long and silver like spun frost, waited at the end of the hall. He stood flanked by two younger disciples, both motionless as carved statues. The elder's eyes, however, were sharp and alive.

"I am Pavilion Master Hae Jin of Clear Wind," he said. "And you three are the new roots growing from Mount Hwa's old tree."

We bowed deeply in unison. "It is an honor, Pavilion Master."

I stepped forward and removed the scroll from my sleeve with both hands.

He took it with care and unrolled it in a single practiced motion. His eyes scanned it—once, twice—then his mouth curved into the faintest of smiles.

"So it is true," he murmured. "Seong Jinhwan finally sends his children beyond the nest."

He refolded the scroll and tapped it lightly against his palm. "You'll stay here for the evening. Your presence is noted. Mount Hwa honors us. Tomorrow, a reply will be written, and you will return with it."

"Thank you, Pavilion Master," I said. "We will remain humble guests."

"Good. Humble guests are rarely thrown out."

Dan flinched, but the old man laughed, and the tension scattered like leaves in wind.

Later, we sat in a guest house overlooking a still pond, steam rising from warm tea cups between us.

"I like it here," Dan said, sipping. "There's no shouting. No frost training in the dark. No one making us carry buckets up stairs."

"You mean it's soft," So-Yeon replied. "That's not the same as good."

"I didn't say we should stay, just… appreciate. For one night."

I leaned back, watching small fish stir the pond's surface. Something about the air here felt… different. Not weaker. Just gentler.

I could feel my qi more clearly here—like standing in still water rather than flowing current. Mount Hwa had taught me force. This place seemed to teach stillness.

"I want to spar with one of their disciples," I said aloud.

Dan blinked. "We just got here."

"They feel different. Their techniques might be different, too. And I want to understand."

So-Yeon nodded, not surprised. "Then ask. But be respectful. They may be calm, but they're not weak."

I stood, adjusting the blade on my back. "I'll return soon."

I found a group of disciples practicing in a smaller courtyard near the eastern wing. Their movements were slow, flowing, almost dance-like. Not once did they raise their voices. Their strikes came not from power, but from weightless precision.

One noticed me. He was slightly older, his hair tied back in a simple knot, and his presence as light as a feather but as centered as a boulder.

"You are from Mount Hwa," he said.

"I am. I seek a friendly match. Not to prove anything. Just to learn."

He considered, then gave a shallow bow. "Then let us both learn."

We stepped into the ring. No loud calls. No clash of steel. Just breath, motion, and the sound of shoes on stone.

He was fast—no, not fast. Smooth. I swung, and he stepped away before the blade had finished moving. Not out of fear—he read me like a scroll and moved accordingly.

I slowed down. Not because I was tired—but because that was how he fought.

And something clicked.

The moment I shifted from force to flow, our rhythm changed. My blade no longer carved the air—it swept it. My stance no longer braced against the ground—it balanced upon it.

We danced for what felt like moments and hours. When we stepped back, neither of us had landed a blow, but something had been exchanged nonetheless.

He bowed again. "You carry great weight, but you're beginning to let it move with you."

I bowed in return. "And you carry wind that can carve stone."

That night, I didn't sleep. I sat by the pond, the sword resting across my knees, and breathed slowly.

Winter had come.

But beneath the snow, the roots of the Giant Blossom were growing deeper still.