Chapter 15: Rice, Breath, and Blossoms

The sky above the Sect of the Returning Soul was just beginning to turn orange when Joseph opened his eyes.

He had woken before the dawn bell.

The room was quiet. The wooden beams above him, still dark from the shadows of night, felt heavier than usual. A soft breeze came through the open window, carrying the scent of pine, cold stone, and dew-slick moss. For a long moment, he lay still, listening to the quiet.

Then he sat up.

Today was important. He would be called before the Elder Council before the sun reached its peak. But until then…

He would follow the routine.

Wei Shen's routine.

Joseph rose and washed with water from the clay basin beside his bed. He tied his hair back into a neat knot, slipping the cloth band just the way he remembered reading it in the novel. Left over right. Keep the nape exposed. Simple. Disciplined.

He dressed in the gray robes of the outer sect, tightening the sash without flair. Wei Shen never wasted time on ornaments.

Then came breakfast.

Joseph stepped outside and walked the quiet path to the food stall, where early risers could claim their share before training began.

The stall offered only two options in the early hours: congee with pickled radish, or rice balls wrapped in steamed lotus leaf.

He took the rice balls.

Wei Shen always chose them.

As he sat alone under the flowering peach tree near the martial courtyard, Joseph bit into the first one and grimaced slightly.

"They're still dry," he muttered.

They always were.

He chewed anyway, trying to be present in the moment. He imagined Wei Shen eating just like this—quiet, steady, watching the fog peel back from the edges of the mountains.

After finishing, he brushed off his hands and walked toward the southern terrace, where the basic qi flow exercises were usually performed at sunrise.

Joseph knelt at the top of the terrace and closed his eyes.

He moved through the Hand Stances of Returning Breath, one by one.

Open Palm for Life. Closed Fist for Past. Rising Fingers for Focus. Downturned Palm for Acceptance.

He inhaled slowly, holding the breath in his dantian, then exhaled evenly.

The qi didn't move easily yet—it stirred like a lazy cat, reluctant and sluggish. But it was there.

And every day, it stirred a little more.

After the stances came the Fist Meditation. Not a combat form, but a philosophical one. Punch slowly. Pull back. Strike again. Each motion symbolic. Not meant to hurt, but to embody the intention behind cultivation.

Refine the body. Still the mind. Sharpen the soul.

He moved in silence for a full half-hour, the breeze whispering through the terrace trees. A few other outer disciples arrived partway through, joining in quietly beside him.

When he finished, Joseph stepped away, bowed toward the sun, and continued his routine.

Wei Shen's routine.

He walked the length of the sect's main path, stopping at each hall garden, where small ceramic watering jars sat waiting. It was an old tradition—outer disciples helping tend the flowers as a gesture of humility.

Most skipped it.

Wei Shen never had.

Joseph started at the Hall of Scrolls, watering the narrow line of bluebell sprouts along the side. Then the Path of Rebirth Pavilion, where bright red hibiscus bloomed defiantly even in the colder air.

Then finally, he reached the Cultivation Hall—a wide open hall with smooth stone floors and pillars shaped like spiraling clouds. It sat quietly nestled between two cliffside walks, and its garden was a mix of orchid vines and moonflowers that opened only during spiritual meditation.

Joseph reached for the watering jar and began his work quietly, crouching low.

"Most disciples skip the flowers," a voice said behind him, soft and amused. "I take it you're either very diligent, or very bored."

Joseph looked up.

A girl sat cross-legged just inside the Cultivation Hall. She was young—maybe a year or two older than him—with her hair in a single braid over her shoulder and an inner disciple's insignia stitched into her dark indigo robes. She had a small silver sword resting across her knees and a faint glow of spiritual energy around her like a gentle mist.

She hadn't been there when he arrived—or maybe she had, but her presence was so still it had merged with the qi of the hall.

"I'm… just following my routines," Joseph said carefully.

She tilted her head, watching him.

"You're the outer disciple involved in the Mist Path incident, aren't you? Wei Shen?"

Joseph nodded slowly, his expression changed mildly. So the events of the most path has reached every corner of the sect.

"Mm. The Elders have been talking. Not that I was eavesdropping," she added quickly, a teasing glint in her eye. "But the walls are very thin, and the incense girls forget how loud they walk."

Joseph gave a small smile. "I figured word would spread."

The girl gestured to the moonflowers around him. "Do you know what these are called?"

Joseph blinked. "Moonflowers."

"Yes, but their proper name is Soulshade Bloom. They only open for cultivators who meditate near them with a clear mind. Most outer disciples can't get them to open for a decade."

Joseph glanced at the ones behind her. They were all wide open.

She caught his glance and smiled knowingly. "I've been here a while."

"Inner disciple?"

"Mm-hmm. Five years now. And I still can't make those hibiscus outside the lecture hall bloom. Different flowers, different temperaments."

Joseph poured the last of the water and set the jar down.

She stood, brushed off her robes, and bowed slightly.

"I'm Yan Su, disciple of the Water Mirror Path. You're Wei Shen—disciple of…"

"Technically, no one," Joseph said. "Still outer."

"Well, that might not last much longer," she said, cryptic. "Just a feeling."

She looked up at the sky.

"Whatever happens today, just remember—the Sect of the Returning Soul was made for people who broke something in their last life. You're not here to be perfect. You're here to choose something better."

She gave him one last nod, then turned and walked back inside the hall, her qi gently pulling the doors closed behind her.

Joseph stood there, blinking.

He didn't know who Yan Su really was—not yet—but something told him her words were more than idle encouragement.

He looked at the Soulshade Blooms once more.

One of them, right by where he had been kneeling, was just barely starting to open.