Wandao 002 Morning in Niupu · The Stirring of Fate

Wandao 002

Morning in Niupu · The Stirring of Fate

Before the ridge had stirred and before the heavens had lifted their veil, the village of Niupu lay in a silence thick as breath withheld.

Mist pooled in the lowlands, drawn down by the unseen hand of dawn. It clung to the soil like memory—moist, cool, and laced with the scent of dew-wet grass, overturned earth, and the faintest trace of ash or incense drifting in from afar. 

Not a bird yet in flight, save for a single, sleep-split call threading through the veil—as if the dream of the forest had just been touched by the first line of wakefulness. 

Wan Xiaochuan crouched beside the stream—its waters sluggish, infused with the cold that had gathered beneath the hills through the night. From its surface, a film of fine mist unspooled upward, the air shivering around his skin. 

He cupped a handful of the stream's chill and pressed it to his face. The water slapped his cheek like a blow. He did not flinch. Instead, his eyes widened, breath held, as though welcoming the jolt.

He inhaled deeply. 

Beneath the moss and loam, beneath the damp decay of old leaves and the iron tang of river-stone, there was a trace of something else—smoke, faint and fragrant, unclaimed by fire or incense bowl.

 "Something's different in the scent today,"he thought.

His gaze reached out through the fog. The feet of the mountain were already shrouded. The ridgelines beyond—where the truth lay veiled behind his father's silence—rose in phantom contours he could no longer trust.

Lowering his head, he stared into the water. His own face emerged from the ripple: still young, but the bones beneath beginning to surface. Brow more defined. The bridge of the nose grown straight. Eyes clear, but not yet sharp.

"Another inch in the body..."He touched the edge of his mirrored face."...and perhaps the meridians would draw longer lines, the breath of qi sink deeper. The flesh grows, and so does the sea it holds."

He didn't realize it was the mind of a cultivator taking shape.To him, the thought had come naturally—so much so, he never questioned it. None of the other village boys had ever spoken such things. Nor did he, most of the time. But his thoughts had long since strayed beyond the bounds of a peasant child's world.

His right hand fell idly to his waist, coming to rest where his belt fastened.The rough strip of beast-hide had been rubbed raw in places by his fingers, frayed where habit met time. A single knot had curled and stiffened—scarred from the day he slid down a mossy slope, clinging to a grass rope that nearly cut his palm. He had never replaced the belt. His father never told him to. He'd worn it since he was ten.

A soft wind drifted across the surface of the stream and stirred the jade at his chest.

It was oval in shape, a deep, resinous green—his Heart guard Stone.At its center, carved in thread-thin lines, was an arcane glyph—too fine, too exact to belong to any script used now.

The strokes, sharper than hair strands, folded into one another with a latent rhythm, like a charm born from the stone itself rather than etched into it. Even beneath the morning haze, it faintly pulsed with light, as if drawing breath.

He had held it up to candlelight dozens of times, turning it between his fingers, hoping to catch the full shape of that mark—but it always eluded him. Only in the early morning, when mist coiled thick across the earth, did it reveal its hidden form: a slumbering dragon, folded across his chest, quiet and coiled like a mountain in repose.

He didn't know what the symbol meant.He never dared ask.But he knew one thing with bone-deep certainty:This was not a common thing.

"Xiaochuan! Breakfast's ready!"

From within the mist, his father's voice came—low, steady, riding the morning wind straight into his ears. He rose at once. Without turning back, he knew the voice's direction and its distance. Like a cat, he sprang onto the flagstone path, his steps so light they left no sound. 

As he entered the house, a curl of smoke slipped from the stove vent, its scent circling beneath the eaves like a slow ribbon. On the wooden table sat a bowl of white rice, a plate of wild greens, and a soup whose surface was tinged faintly gold—at its heart floated a slice of silver-fleshed fish, the unmistakable mark of spirit-char stew.

Wan Xiaochuan had eaten this fish for ten years, yet only when cooked by his father did it bear that trace of sweetness he could never quite name.

He devoured it in silence. His father said nothing, only lifted a clay cup and poured himself half a measure of wine. The wine, brewed from mountain hawthorn, carried a subtle tartness. Few words passed between them—none were needed.

Wan Xiaochuan ate fast; Wan Lichao drank slow. The clatter of bowls and chopsticks spoke of a time-worn rhythm, the quiet cadence of lives intertwined by habit and years. They did not speak—but silence itself had become their language.

Suddenly, Xiaochuan paused. A strange tremor stirred in his chest—like wind stirring the ashes of old embers, fanning into life desires and uncertainties he had long left unnamed.

He set his chopsticks down, and asked,"Father, you once said… that cultivation was to become strong."

Wan Lichao's hand paused with the cup still near his lips. He did not drink. Instead, he looked down at the table, voice low and even:

"Mmm. But becoming strong… was never about surpassing others, or chasing after fame."

His tone did not hurry, as if he were speaking to something long ago and far away.

"There are things in this world that only you can stand against. And people—some people—whom only you can shield. If you are not strong… then those things, those people, may slip from your grasp, and you may never see them again."

He paused briefly, then added, quieter still,

"The path of cultivation is not an easy one. I won't lie to you. But if your heart is set on walking it—then I will teach you."

Wan Xiaochuan's voice came softer than before, as though shaped from breath and doubt.

"But… can I really cultivate?" he asked. "The path you once walked—could I walk it too?"

This time, Wan Lichao finally looked up. His gaze was quiet—neither pressing nor expectant.

He spoke slowly, with a steadiness that had been carved from time.

"Many died along that road. I nearly did too. But I endured. And I made it here."

His voice roughened slightly, as though speaking over old scars.

"If you're still unsure, take time to think. No one else can choose this road for you. But if you've decided… I'll walk with you, for the first few steps."

Wan Xiaochuan lowered his head. The hand that held his chopsticks trembled—barely. Then he looked up again, voice low, but clear:

"I won't turn back."

Wan Lichao nodded. There was silence between them, not long, but full.

Then he said, simply,

"Finish your meal. Then come with me to the woods. There's something I need to show you."

Behind the village, the mountain woods thickened into groves of pine, beneath which sprawled a slope of fractured stones.

To the unknowing eye, there was nothing special here. But Wan Xiaochuan knew—hidden beneath these rocks lay a wind array.

Wan Lichao crouched beside him. With two fingers, he brushed aside a pinch of dust, murmured a quiet incantation, and the stones shifted—slowly, like breath drawing back—revealing a sliver of formation lines etched into earth.This was the Minor Subdued Wind Array, a patchwork of scattered remnants, pieced together through years of gleaning lost techniques and stitching heaven's breath into a usable form.

"Sit," the father said. 

Wan Xiaochuan obeyed, folding his legs and settling at the array's core.At the edges of the formation, wind began to stir. Not in gusts, but in fine, threadlike streams—coiling like silk strands around his nose, lungs, and ribs.

He whispered the incantation his father had taught him, and began to draw in breath, spirit, essence. 

The qi entered his body like sand forced into blood. His insides burned, then stabbed—as if his organs were being scalded and pricked from within.But he said nothing. This wasn't his first time.

Every breath he took in cultivation felt like trading life for breath.He had long since understood—this wasn't "cultivation" in the stories. This was endurance.Suffering, honed into persistence. Nothing more.

By the time a single stick of incense had burned, his forehead was beaded with sweat. His breath was uneven, but the qi—tinged pale blue and white—had finally begun to thread together, winding into a single strand in his dantian. 

His father said nothing. But he didn't need to. Xiaochuan knew—he had passed.

It was then— 

A thunderclap cracked through the heavens. 

Wan Xiaochuan's eyes snapped open. His gaze cut toward the sky.From above the clouds, a column of light had pierced down like a blade, striking the barren fields to the southeast of the village.In that instant, his chest seized—as if something had yanked at his soul—and his breathwork shattered.

Wan Lichao had not moved, but his eyes had sharpened. He stared toward the source of the strike, and spoke in a low, flint-edged voice:

"Profoundstone… That is no ordinary object." 

He turned to Xiaochuan, voice heavier than before. 

"This will be the last thing I teach you. From here on, the path is yours to choose."

Wan Xiaochuan blinked. "Father, where are you—?" 

"It's not where I'm going," Wan Lichao interrupted, his gaze meeting his son's, dark and bright like fire trapped in ice."It's where you must go."

Without another word, he turned. Toes touched pine root, and in a breath, he vanished—his figure flickering upward in a streak of shadow and wind.

Wan Xiaochuan knew where he was headed: the place where the stone had fallen.

He stood. Then turned and ran back into the house.From a hidden compartment, he pulled out dried rations, a water gourd, talisman slips.He reached beneath his robe and adjusted the Heartguard Jade, tightening the cord so it pressed warm against his chest.

By the time he stepped outside, light streaks had already torn across the dawn sky—cultivators racing toward the same destination.

"The road of fate has begun." 

He did not look back.And he ran—toward the barren field, where everything would begin.