The dawn arrived as a grey surrender of darkness. Han Li opened his eyes to pale light through the slats. He hadn't slept deeply, but his mind was clear—scraped clean of dreams, polished to a still surface by the weight of the coming day.
He rose. Movements deliberate. Economical.
Morning ablutions became ritual. Water so cold it bit his skin, sharpening every sense. He combed his black hair back, secured it with a plain cloth tie. The face in the warped water basin looked older—cheekbones sharper, jaw more defined.
Then, he put on the green robe.
The fabric whispered as it settled. Substantial. Different from loose hemp. It hung straight and true, deep pine-green like a piece of the deepest forest brought indoors. In the gloom, without a mirror, he assessed by feel—seams along his shoulders, sleeves to his wrists. Correct. Not just clothing. A shell. A declaration. Armor.
Downstairs, the hearth fire crackled, painting the room in dancing light and long shadows. His aunt turned from the grinding stone, hands dusted with fine flour from the new sack. She was shaping flatbreads. Her eyes met his as he descended, and for a moment she simply stared, hands stilling. Her expression shifted from routine focus to quiet, startled awe.
"Li'er…" she began, voice unusually soft. She shook her head slightly, a faint, wondering smile touching her lips. "You look like one from the old tales. The kind mountain spirits steal away. You don't look of this earth just now. Come. Sit."
She gave him two pieces of flatbread, warm and lightly browned. He ate slowly at the rough table, chewing thoroughly, using the simple food to anchor himself in his body. When finished, she approached. Without a word, she smoothed his collar, her work-roughened fingers gentle. A simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes.
Then, shawl fetched, they joined his uncle at the door. The man stood straighter than usual, face set in lines of grim pride. The three stepped out into the cool morning—a small, solemn procession toward the village square.
---
The square was a cauldron of humanity. A seething tumult of hope and fear.
Every soul from village and farms had converged—a dense, murmuring tapestry of weathered faces and finest clothes. The air thick: damp earth, pungent sweat, cloying smoke of cheap incense sticks lit for luck. A palpable, nervous energy vibrated through the crowd—the collective pressure of a hundred suppressed dreams about to be weighed on a single scale.
As Han Li's family edged forward, conversation fragments swirled:
"It'll be Wang Chan. His family donated half a stone of silver to the temple."
"Ming Xue has the cleverest hands.Gentle, precise. A healer's touch."
"Zhang Ting has a healer's patience.Calm as a deep pool."
Then,lower, near Han Li's elbow: "What about the Han boy? The one in green. He's always been sharp-eyed, quiet. And look at him now… he doesn't seem of this place. Stands like a young pine."
A louder, dismissive voice cut through—Wang Chan's uncle, face perpetually scowling. "A pretty robe is not a skill! Pretty faces catch the eye, then disappoint. Real talent requires backing, nourishment, strength! What does a woodcutter's nephew know of exalted healing arts?"
Han Li heard the words. Let them wash against the steady calm he'd constructed. He felt his aunt's hand tighten briefly on his arm—protective anger—but didn't look. Kept his gaze forward, fixed on the square's center.
They found a place near the front. Clear line of sight.
In the center of all that commotion stood an island of stark simplicity: a single, unvarnished wooden table and a plain, high-backed chair. Upon the chair sat the man who held all their fates.
Physician Xiao.
The man appeared sixty, but a lean, weathered, potent sixty. Robe simple grey hemp, spotlessly clean, utterly without adornment. Iron-grey hair in a severe topknot. Face all angles and planes—prominent nose, sharp jaw, thin lips. Eyes dark, watchful, deeply set, missing nothing.
On the table before him rested the sole object of judgment: a crystal, roughly the size of two clasped hands. Deep, opaque blue—like hardened twilight, frozen moonless night sky.
The physician raised a thin, long-fingered hand. Instantaneous effect. The crowd's noise subsided, collapsing into a thick, expectant hush so complete the rustle of cloth sounded loud.
"This one is Physician Xiao." Voice dry, precise, carrying without strain. No warmth, no comfort. "I have traveled a long road. My purpose is singular: to select my final disciple. We will not waste daylight."
He leaned forward slightly, tapped a fingernail against the blue crystal. A clear, sharp tock rang out—sound of finality.
"The test is simple. You will approach in turn. Place your hand, palm flat, upon this Spirit Inquiry Crystal. If you possess requisite potential, it will emit light. The nature and strength of the light will be noted. That is the only criterion."
A ripple of confusion through the crowd. That's it? someone whispered.
Physician Xiao's lips thinned into a humorless, knowing smile. "That is it. The truth of one's potential is not found in recited texts or practiced manners. It is woven into the spirit. The crystal sees what eyes cannot. Begin."
---
First to stride forward: Wang Chan. Brimming with confidence half his own, half borrowed from family status. Broad shoulders pushed through onlookers who readily gave way. Approving whispers followed: "A martial prodigy!" "Look at his stance!" "It's settled."
Wang Chan stopped before the table, offered a deep, showy bow. "This unworthy one greets the esteemed Physician! This humble one is Wang Chan, and I—"
"Your hand." Physician Xiao interrupted, tone flat, utterly dismissing the performance.
A flush crept up Wang Chan's neck. He straightened, stepped to the table, placed his thick palm flat on the crystal with an audible slap. Stared at the stone, face contorting with intense effort—as if willing light through sheer ambition.
One second.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
The blue stone remained dark. Inert. Unresponsive. Just a rock.
"Next." Physician Xiao flicked his fingers slightly, dismissive gesture without even looking.
Wang Chan's face drained of blood, then flooded back with mottled red humiliation. His swagger collapsed inward. He snatched his hand back as if scalded, retreated stiffly, eyes fixed on ground, unable to meet stares.
The procession of hope continued. Slow-motion parade of diminishing returns.
Ming Xue, girl with clever fingers, approached with gentle grace. Touch feather-light. Nothing. Her hand left the stone as if suddenly cold enough to burn. Hurried back to mother, eyes downcast.
Zhang Ting, calm granddaughter of Old Zhang, moved with deliberate serenity. Placed her hand, breathed slowly. Nothing. Offered a small, resigned bow, melted back into family—quiet dignity making failure more poignant.
One after another, the village's best touched the lifeless stone and stepped away, diminished. Butcher's strong son. Scribe's clever daughter. Farmer's lad known for endurance. Each silent failure a blow to collective spirit. Initial excitement curdled into souring dread.
Physician Xiao's expression, never warm, grew more closed, more weary with each attempt. A man sifting through river sand for a grain of gold, finding only pebbles.
Finally, a slender, hollow-cheeked girl named Yu Neng—from poorest edge of village—was nudged forward by desperate-looking mother. She crept to the table, entire frame trembling. Laid her thin, pale hand on the crystal as if afraid it might break.
For the briefest instant—a flicker so faint many doubted their eyes—a light kindled deep within the stone's core. Sickly, dim orange. Color of dying ember. Pulsed once, weakly. Vanished, swallowed by blue darkness.
"Next," the physician said, voice flat, devoid of even hint of encouragement.
But as the girl shrank back, face mask of ashamed relief, Han Li—standing close—saw the old man's eyes close for a single, weary heartbeat. Caught the whisper, clinical regret meant for no one but air: "A withering spirit root. Consumed by its own mortal shell before it could ever breathe. Unfortunate."
---
Physician Xiao looked out over the sea of defeated, anxious faces. His own expression: profound, bone-deep disappointment. Clearly his final stop on a long, fruitless journey. The hope in this place, like the girl's spirit root, had proven barren.
He straightened his already-straight back. "Is there anyone else?" The question hung in still air like verdict already delivered—final roll call before abandonment.
Silence absolute. Heavy with collective shame. Parents looked at feet. Children stared, wide-eyed. The dream was over.
Han Li's heart beat steady, heavy, drum-like rhythm against his ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump. This was the ledge. The moment between solid cliff and empty air.
He took a breath, deep and silent, filling the very bottom of his lungs. Stepped forward.
"Senior Physician." His voice, calm and clear, cut the silence like a knife. "A moment, please."
Every head in the square snapped around. All eyes found the source: a young man in robe of deep, resilient pine-green, neatly separating himself from the crowd. The morning sun, now clear of rooftops, seemed to choose him, illuminating him distinctly. Fine cotton held light differently than homespun around him, giving him a subtle nimbus. Against muted palette of browns, faded blues, and greys—a single, vivid stroke of composed clarity.
"That's Han Li… the woodcutter's boy."
"He looks…different. Like he's from somewhere else."
"Look at his bearing.No fear."
Han Li heard none of it. His world had narrowed, tunnel-vision tight, to the space between himself and the old man at the table. The crowd became a blur of color and sound. He walked forward with measured steps, stopped at prescribed distance, offered a bow respectful in depth but not subservient in posture. Then raised his gaze to meet Physician Xiao's.
The physician's detached boredom vanished. Eradicated. His dark, weary eyes sharpened with startling speed, focusing on Han Li with hawk-like, penetrating intensity. He said nothing. Merely gave slightest incline of chin: Proceed.
Without further ceremony, Han Li raised his right hand. Let it hover for a single heartbeat over the cool, perfectly smooth surface of the blue crystal—feeling a faint, magnetic pull, a hum below threshold of sound. Then, placed his palm flat upon it.
---
For one suspended, eternal moment: nothing.
The crowd held its breath as one organism.
Even the birds seemed to silence.
Then, deep within the stone's absolute, midnight center, a light kindled.
Not a flash. Not an explosion of glory. A slow, inevitable, organic welling—like clear, cold water rising irresistibly from a hidden spring in the earth's heart. Pure, steady azure luminescence, bright as summer sky yet deep as mountain tarn, grew from that single infinitesimal point. Spread, pulse by gentle pulse, through the crystal's labyrinthine depths until the entire stone glowed from within—transformed from hardened twilight into a vessel of captured daylight. Cast soft, ethereal, blue-white radiance onto Han Li's resolved, impassive face and up onto Physician Xiao's now utterly, perfectly still countenance.
In the ringing, awe-struck silence of the square, the Spirit Inquiry Crystal pulsed once—a slow, full beat, like a heart made of light—its glow steady, deep, and undeniable.
A door, unlooked-for and hidden in the wall of the world, had just clicked open in the quiet.