In Lumara Valley the wind never stopped moving.
It wandered through terraced fields and mirrored lakes, carrying the same scent of wet clay that had perfumed Dave's first footsteps there centuries ago.
From mountain to plain it whispered one word to all who listened:
Balance.
A vow older than memory still clung to the stones — but now it had become a creed too settled to breathe.
A century or two since the last whisper of a living god, Lumara had changed.
The Circle of Balance hung above every gate, painted on every coin, even branded on cattle hides and children's toys. It reminded citizens of peace yet also bound them to reverence: a circle so perfect that no one dared step beyond it.
Until the day a monk tripped on a weed.
1 – The WeedThe monk's name was Ji An, third son of a roof‑thatcher.
He wasn't clever, only endlessly curious about pointless things like the color of lake‑foam or the hum of insects in reeds.
While collecting reeds for scroll paper one damp morning, he slipped down an embankment, skinning his palms. Pain flared, then soothed; in the mud beneath him grew a herb he had never seen before — a slender stalk, its single leaf veined with faint silver light.
He stared. The glow pulsed with rhythm — inhale, exhale — exactly matching the breathing technique every Balance novice practiced.
When he plucked it, warmth crawled up his fingers to his chest and settled there like a third lung. He breathed once and the sound of water deepened.
"Strange," he whispered. "The air's thicker."
He wrapped the plant in cloth and ran to the monastery.
2 – Word SpreadsBy dusk the valley buzzed with rumor: A living leaf that hums with qi.
The first immortal weed!
Proof the Quiet One still watches!
Within days, crowds climbed the muddy slope to search, tearing entire hillsides apart.
Of all the hundreds who dug, only Ji An had found it; only one stalk grew, and already it had withered to ash.
The monks argued until dawn over what it meant.
High Master Zhu Ming declared, "It proves the Dao of Balance blossoms where humility roots."
Another countered, "Nonsense! It means Heaven invites progress. We must cultivate it artificially!"
Voices rose, hands slammed on tables.
In the end, Zhu Ming decreed the formation of a new order to study the miracle herb properly — a sectdevoted to herbology and qi.
So began the Sect of the Leaf in Rain.
3 – Dave WatchesFar above, unseen behind morning clouds, Dave stirred.
The new sect's birth felt like the faint tick of a heartbeat within his chest.
He had heard the chant of their meeting, seen their torches in borrowed dreams.
Sitting in his hut in Cloudmarket, he half‑smiled.
"They found their way to curiosity again," he murmured, palm pressed over heart.
He didn't intervene. He only listened, letting faint karmic dust rise — each grain a note of the same long song.
Sometimes, when meditation drew him too close, breezes would shift in Lumara Valley, carrying ideas no one knew they'd thought themselves.
4 – The Sect in PracticeThe Sect of the Leaf in Rain began with twelve monks and Ji An's single legend.
They built bamboo courtyards along the lakeshore, hung prayer flags cut in spiral shapes, and spent their days trying to reproduce the lost plant.
Ji An toiled from dawn until stars returned, crushing berries, boiling moss, anything that breathed.
He found nothing that glowed.
Disciples grumbled.
One said, "We could forge a miracle if we added metal dust."
Another: "No, fortunetellers say the herb arose from your mistake — blood mixed with reed mud!"
Zhu Ming silenced them: "Foolishness! Heaven gives freely only to patience."
Patience, however, starved easily.
Winter swept through, harvests failed, donations fell. Within two decades the Leaf Sect teetered on collapse.
Ji An stayed.
When snow locked the fields, he practiced breathing beside a frozen stream, letting frost creep up his knees. Sometimes when his focus held steady enough, he could hear tones in the water—not melody but meaning.
Wait. it said … Roots need cold to remember warmth.
He waited.
5 – First SuccessThe second spring after famine, he noticed small sprouts growing where he had practiced.
Their leaves shimmered faintly silver under moonlight.
He bent close, touched one, and felt again that heartbeat warmth—but weaker, safer.
He wept and laughed in the same breath.
The sect cultivated the seedlings carefully.
Most died.
A handful survived through seasons, enough for experiments.
When broth made from the leaves was drunk, it lent energy to meditation, sharpening focus until practitioners could sense qi threads for the first time in their lives.
Qi Refinement Stage shifted from myth to possibility.
6 – Temptation of GrowthSuccess rarely walks alone.
As other monasteries heard of the herb—now named Silver Vein Grass—envy stirred.
Petty lords demanded tribute, claiming harvest rights under the banner of old faith.
Merchants offered to trade gold for seeds they'd never hold.
Scholars called the sect "divine farmers" and "fools tampering with Heaven."
Within the Leaf Sect, factions formed:
* The Balance Keepers led by Zhu Ming: Use the grass only in ritual; remain humble, fearing another calamity.
* The Seekers led by younger monks: Mass‑plant the herb, feed qi to the world, ascend together.
Ji An found himself between them, torn between gratitude and hope.
7 – A Mortal EveningOne sunset he wandered to the same slope where he had first fallen into mud.
The hills glowed amber.
He felt someone beside him—though the air only lifted like breath.
"You still dream through them," Dave whispered, unseen.
Ji An spoke aloud to the empty air. "If the Quiet One exists, should we not honor his gift by using it?"
The wind answered without words, brushing grass against his fingertips.
When he looked, the blades leaned eastward toward the lake.
He bowed. "Then balance again. Neither hoard nor squander."
From that night he taught moderation to both factions—but few listened.
8 – The Fall of RainhallThe Seekers claimed destiny and planted whole valleys with Silver Vein Grass, feeding it crushed crystals to quicken its spirit.
For half a century the valley prospered.
People could meditate longer, think clearer, work harder.
Trade blossomed; rulers funded temples instead of wars.
Then the river changed color.
Pollen from the over‑cultivated fields drifted downstream, merging with ordinary reeds.
When peasants burned those reeds for winter warmth, the air thickened with raw energy.
Cattle trembled, children sickened, lakes frothed with dead fish.
What Heaven gives in drops, greed multiplies into storms.
Rainhall, the splendor capital of balance, fell to plague and flood in the same year.
9 – Dave's ReturnIn Cloudmarket City the storm arrived only as a tickling cough in Dave's chest.
He closed his eyes; inside, lightning cracked across Lumara Valley.
Without thinking, he descended—not to save, only to witness.
Rain hammered ruined courtyards; monks fled carrying soaked scrolls.
Thunder split the mountains.
Among the chaos, Ji An knelt before withered fields of Silver Vein Grass, praying to be forgiven for faith turned arrogance.
Dave's avatar stood unseen beside him, coat plastered with rain.
"You listened once," he said softly. "Listen again."
Ji An startled at the voice echoing between thunderclaps, but saw nothing.
He pressed his hands to the mud.
The rain's rhythm slowed; breath steadied; downstream the overflowing river began to subside.
In his ears a whisper rolled like water over stone: Balance obeys itself.
He looked up in tears, whispering, "Thank you, traveler."
Dave smiled faintly. They still hadn't recognised him—and never would. That was grace.
10 – Recovery and LessonBy next spring survivors returned to rebuild—a smaller, humbler order.
They named themselves The Grey Leaf Monastery, abandoning claims of monopoly.
Silver Vein Grass still grew, limited to small terraces watched by farmers who bowed before harvesting a single blade.
The herb's infusion became an initiation drink—its warmth guiding cultivators toward clearer meditation but granting no leaps in power.
Progress slowed, yet each advancement earned rather than seized.
Disciples learned low‑level spells during patient practice:
Ripple Sense – feeling disturbances in still water.Leaf Turning – moving small objects by balancing breath.Wound Mending Skin‑Art – using Silver Vein paste to close minor cuts.Simple, utilitarian, enough to change lives without alluring conquerors.
11 – Everyday StrugglesOutside monasteries, common people still labored: bending backs to harvest rice, carrying stones for new dams, singing call‑and‑answer songs that echoed cultivation breathing rhythms by accident.
Some children mimicked monks' gestures, thinking them games.
Droughts, jealous kings, and illness still visited regularly.
The difference was subtle: people endured more calmly.
Even loss acquired rhythm.
One evening a farmer buried his wife beneath a willow and whispered the Circle verse not for promise of heaven, but as reminder that sorrow and joy share roots.
Karmic mist rose in a single golden breath; Dave felt it flutter across his own pulse like a sigh.
12 – Dave Among the CrowdFor a time he lived openly as an itinerant herbalist, selling ordinary salves and teaching villagers how to blend Silver Vein in daily tonics safely.
No one connected him to prophecy; children called him Uncle Traveler Wind.
He left before anyone could wonder why their whispers calmed storms or why crops leaned toward cities he passed—moving always east as if following the circle of dawn.
Every so often he visited Grey Leaf Monastery unseen, sitting at the back during chants.
Monks debated refinement techniques, some proudly claiming half a step toward Enlightenment.
He smiled—the truth: they were still decades from it, and that was good.
He preferred slowness; quick ascension tastes like uncooked grain.
13 – The Karmic BloomAfter another year a strange event occurred.
At midsummer, the last remaining patch of untamed Silver Vein Grass bloomed with tiny flowers for the first time.
Each emitted faint silver light but released no dangerous pollen.
Their fragrance carried through the valley, sweet and earthy.
People everywhere paused, taking the same breath at once.
Dave felt the synchrony flood through him—millions of heartbeats beating to the same patient rhythm.
Karma condensed like dew across night skies, falling softly as unseen rain.
When dawn came, the valley glowed clean as if polished.
No miracles, no new spells—just health in crops, laughter in homes, peace in dreams.
He folded his hands and whispered toward both worlds, "Lesson taken."
14 – AfterlightLumara's balance held.
The Sect of the Leaf in Rain survived as a school of patience, passing manual techniques instead of divine ones.
Silver Vein Herb became sacred yet ordinary—a medicine, not a miracle.
Dave remained a lingering memory: in bedtime stories, the unnamed herb doctor, the wanderer who smiled during storms.
He never revealed himself; his legend worked better without form.
At night he sat by rivers smelling faintly of silver and wrote in his worn notebook:
One grass changed the shape of faith.
Not by shining, but by teaching men to stop when light was enough.
He let the ink dry, blew out the lamp, and listened.
Somewhere in the miniature world a child giggled in sleep; somewhere else, a monk exhaled slowly and heard water answer.
The loops of sound matched, rippling through eternity like rain inside stone.
15 – EchoIn Cloudmarket City, dawn rose pale.
Dave awoke, heart steady, body older by one breath of perspective.
He poured a cup of dew and whispered, "They're learning."
Old Qiu yawned from outside. "Who?"
"Everyone."
The old beggar laughed. "Prophets again? You and your grass metaphors."
Dave smiled. "Even prophets weed their gardens."
He took up the broom, began sweeping spirals once more.
Far below, the miniature world mirrored his gesture: rivers curved in arcs, valleys shaped new terraces, winds inhaled and exhaled exactly once for every sweep.
Balance renewed itself quietly — without miracle, without god, just the lingering memory of a gentle traveler whose footprints never stayed long enough to cast a shadow.