The Road to Ashreed

Ashreed was not a place one stumbled upon—it was a village that endured, etched into the world like an old scar that refused to fade.

When Shen first approached its cracked perimeter walls with a sack of rice over his shoulder and a two-tailed fox at his heels, he had braced himself for despair. After all, what good could grow in soil this thin, under skies this dry?

Yet what greeted him was not misery, but pride.

The people wore patched garments but stood straighter than most minor nobles. Their homes, built from mud-brick and straw, bore the wear of time—but not neglect. Even the air tasted different: smoke, sweat, and a defiance that had never known surrender.

A voice rang out like a gong.

"Ho, stranger!"

A woman stepped into Shen's path. Thick-armed, sun-darkened, her hair tied in a warrior's knot. A rusted cleaver hung from her belt, its edge sharp enough to whisper through bone. Her eyes locked onto Ling, who yawned innocently—both tails flicking in unison.

"That's no ordinary fox," the woman said.

Shen tensed.

The woman grinned.

"Good. Our storehouse rats have been chewing through stone."

Ashreed had its own trinity of strength. Every sect had its elders. Every mountain, its guardians. Ashreed had three.

Granny Hualin — the Thorned Root — was bent with age, white of hair, but her eyes were sharp as spirit steel. She ruled over the village's single herb garden like a sect master tending her alchemy furnace.

When Shen passed by her gate, she sniffed once and spat. "Mudvale, eh? Your ribs still ache when it rains, don't they?"

Shen froze. She had read his injuries with a glance—scars hidden even from cultivator senses. A sharp mind, honed on older wars.

Uncle Bao — the Iron Balance — was once a caravan guard, now the village's de facto leader. His leg dragged slightly when he walked—a remnant of "a minor disagreement" with a bandit spear.

He bartered not with coin, but with understanding. When Shen offered the rice, Bao squinted, weighed it in one hand. "Full worth," he declared, nodding. "Tools, not silver."

And then, lower, with a glance at the distant watchtower: "Hide your best sacks. Magistrate's collectors grow hungrier each season."

Little Pei — the Bloom Before Rain — was an orphan girl no taller than a bucket, with dirt under her nails and secrets in her smile.

She fed Ling a dried fish head without hesitation. Later, she tugged on Shen's sleeve, offering a folded cloth packet. Inside: carrot seeds.

"For the fox," she said solemnly. "She's skinny."

Behind the blacksmith's hut, a patch of stolen flowers bloomed—tended by her hands alone.

Shen did not belong to Ashreed. Not yet. This was no grand sect with open gates. Here, trust was earned the old way—with work, trade, and soil beneath the nails.

Granny Hualin wanted a cutting from the Seed of Possibility. "For my tea," she said, meaning medicine. Shen hesitated—until the land shifted beneath him, nudging his ribs. He obeyed.

Uncle Bao gestured toward the threshing floor. "Show me how you separate grain without wasting half." Shen knelt, summoned his spirit flow, and demonstrated his rolling-stone technique. Bao watched, snorted, and handed over a bag of nails.

"Stubborn," he muttered. "Just like our soil."

Little Pei did not ask. She simply planted her flowers along the new irrigation ditches Shen dug by hand. Ling followed, tail high, digging holes with practiced joy. Shen did not stop her.

Granny Hualin's herbs thickened. Some now bloomed out of season.

Uncle Bao quietly organized roadwork crews—straight past Mudvale's fields.

Little Pei's flowers spread beyond the blacksmith's shade, daring to color the roads.

But roots attract shadows.

The magistrate's tax collector—a failed cultivator with a jade sigil and a sneer—arrived on his pale donkey. He noticed the unnatural lushness of Shen's grain. He left with narrowed eyes.

Whispers rose from Bramblethorn, the next hamlet over:

"Mudvale steals our rains."

"His fox is a spirit-beast."

"His land drinks qi—it is cursed."

Ashreed did not boast towers or talismans, but it offered something Shen never found even among disciples—belonging.

The Dust Dance—a ritual to welcome late summer rains—left Shen laughing, clay dust on his cheeks, a mug of bitter rice wine in hand.

"Mudvale's Tears!" Bao called it. "Burns twice—going down and coming up!"

That evening, Shen left Ashreed with more than tools.

He carried Granny's cuttings, Little Pei's seeds, and a rare gift from Uncle Bao: a blessing, disguised as a grumble.

"Try not to die before next harvest. We've got wagers riding on you."

Ahead, Ling trotted confidently, a stolen sausage clenched in her jaws like a war trophy.

Shen—and the fox who padded quietly beside him—it was becoming something rarer still:

A place worth returning to.

A home.

End of Chapter