Turnips and Tremors

The dawn after the Imperial Inspector's arrival found Shen meticulously thinning turnip seedlings. Mist clung to vibrant green shoots like liquid diamonds, each tiny plant a defiant proclamation of life against encroaching shadows. Ling lay nearby, one eye tracking Shen's precise movements, the other following a bumblebee's lazy path. The cleaned rabbit hanging near the fire pit stood as proof of her new path - a hunter of clean prey, honoring their agreement.

Wider spacing, Shen thought, more to the plants than to Ling. Room to breathe. Room to grow. Just like us. He carefully transplanted a weaker sprout, the simple act of nurturing life anchoring him against the cold dread of the Imperial purge that lingered at the edge of his awareness like frost on morning grass.

As he worked, warmth blossomed in his chest - soft as dandelion fluff yet clear as spring water. He didn't see words, but knew: his labor strengthened their bond. The turnips thrived under his care, their roots drinking deep from soil that remembered his sweat. Ling's ears twitched as if she sensed it too.

Feeling:

Through quiet toil, roots gripped deeper. Soil embraced sweat, and from their union, a strength quietly unfurled.

(The knowledge did not shout; it settled into his bones with the patience of earth.)

Ling suddenly stiffened, ears swiveling toward Ashreed's path. Moments later, Granny Hualin emerged from the mist, her staff striking the damp earth like a worried heartbeat. Her face looked grayer than the dawn.

"Expecting trouble, Granny?" Shen asked, wiping dirt from his hands.

"Trouble's already sitting in Gao's best chair," she rasped, sinking onto a stump. She accepted hot water, her eyes scanning the field like a hawk. "The Inspector... Wei. He's not auditing taxes. He's auditing souls."

She described households cataloged, ages recorded as "village resources." Magistrate Gao trailed him like a hungry dog.

"He asked about you, Shen," Granny's voice dropped to a whisper only the wind and earth might carry. "Specifically the land. 'Anomalous fertility patterns,' he called it." She shuddered. "That veil... he sees through walls. And he brought hunters."

She spoke of two cultivators moving like ghosts, their presence like frost forming on stone - cold, sharp, almost invisible until it bit. "Frozen Blade," she spat. "Saw their dagger-pins. They don't send those for tax disputes. They silence problems."

A chill unrelated to morning air seeped into Shen's bones. The land's hum shifted - a low, warning thrum beneath his feet.

Feeling:

Cold steel in shadows. Frost that bites roots. Names: Frozen Blade. Purpose: Unmake, Control.

(Knowledge crystallized like ice in his veins)

"So they poke the hornet's nest," Shen said flatly, "and blame the hornets."

"Exactly," Granny nodded. "They'll use Gao and Ashreed's fear to box you in. Make you vanish." She pressed a bundle of purple herbs into his hand. "Shadowmoss. Crush it, paint your trees. Makes your Seed look like background noise to their fancy eyes." A peasant's trick against cultivator sight.

Shen accepted the moss smelling of damp earth and bitter almonds. "Thank you, Granny."

"Survive first," she grunted, rising. "Keep that fox's teeth sharp... for now." She vanished into mist, leaving Ling preening.

At dusk, Shen walked to Ashreed with twelve perfect turnips bundled in leaves. Imperial guards stood like stone statues. Uncle Bao leaned against the well, knuckles white. Little Pei was conspicuously absent.

Magistrate Gao puffed at Shen's approach. "The Mudvale hermit! Come to grovel?"

"I brought the first fruits of harvest," Shen replied calmly, offering turnips. "For the Inspector. Ashreed's soil shares its bounty."

Gao blinked. "Turnips? Hardly—"

"Freshly pulled. Grown without artifice," Shen interrupted, emphasizing "land." A cold voice cut through the doorway: "Simplicity can be... refreshing."

Inspector Wei stood veiled, radiating chill. His gaze swept turnips, Shen, then Ling - who sat motionless as carved jade.

"Your beast is remarkably disciplined," Wei observed.

"Ling is of Mudvale," Shen answered. "We tend together."

Silence stretched. Air grew colder. Finally, Wei gave a microscopic nod. "Your tribute is noted." He vanished.

Gao stared, bewildered. His threat narrative had crumbled before turnips and a calm fox. Shen turned to leave as warmth blossomed in his chest - the land's approval.

Feeling:

Deceptive roots hold firm. Shadow weaves true. Foes look but do not see. Strength gathers in quiet soil.

(Resolve warmed him like hearth-fire)

Walking home at twilight, Shen felt the Seed of Possibility's leaves rustle without wind. A thought bloomed in his mind, warm as sun-baked stone yet firm as bedrock:

They test the fence. We grow the thorns.

Ling brushed against his leg, purring. The thorns, Shen knew, were already taking root.

End of Chapter