The True Archive was not a place for the physical body, but for the spirit. Li Ming's body sat in a trance-like state on the cold floor, but his consciousness was fully immersed in the circle of echoes. The psychic space around him had transformed from a chaotic whisper-chamber into a stark, focused training ground.
Iron Saint Bai's presence expanded, becoming the entire "ground" beneath them, a vast, unyielding plain of compacted spiritual energy.
"Foundation is not about being hard," Bai's voice resonated through the very earth of the space. "A stone is hard, but it can be picked up and thrown. A mountain cannot. Why?"
"Because it is part of the earth," Li Ming answered, feeling the truth of it.
"Exactly. Its roots are deep. Your spirit, Keeper, is a sapling on a windy cliff. You react to every gust. You must grow roots that connect you to something older and vaster than yourself. To the truth of the Archives. To the weight of history you carry. Feel for that connection now."
Li Ming tried. He thought of the scrolls, of Master An, of the mountain itself. It felt intellectual, not spiritual.
"…boring!" Zhao's echo complained. "Roots are for trees! Let's talk about tripping over roots!"
"Quiet," Bai thundered, but the damage was done. Li Ming's focus shattered into a flicker of amusement.
"You see?" Lady Silken Death's voice slithered in. "A single distraction, a wobble in your own mind, and your foundation cracks. Your focus is your root, boy. Nourish it. Protect it."
The Abbot's calming presence washed over him. "Do not fight the distraction. Acknowledge it, and let it pass. A root does not argue with the worm that passes by; it simply continues its downward journey."
Li Ming tried again. He let the Drunken God's complaint be a leaf brushing past, not a rock hitting him. He sank his awareness past his own fears, past his fatigue, into the deep, silent hum of the Archive itself. The collective memory of ten thousand endings. The solemn, timeless purpose of this place: to remember.
He felt a thread of connection. Faint, but real. It was like touching the spine of a massive, sleeping beast. It was the Archive's own spirit. His will, his role as Keeper, was a tiny taproot seeking its immense, dormant power.
"Better," Bai grunted. "A sprout. Now, hold it. While holding it, tell me, what do you feel in the mountain below us? Not in here. Out there."
This was the real test. Using his own rooted awareness as a medium to sense the physical world. Li Ming clung to the thread of connection and pushed his perception through it, down through the stone of the mountain, toward the forests and paths below.
Sensation flooded him, confusing and immense. The slow, grinding patience of the bedrock. The quick, fearful scurry of a thousand small lives in the forest. The steady, patient growth of trees. It was a roaring symphony of non-human life.
"Too much," he gasped.
"Filter," Bai commanded. "You are not listening for life. You are listening for intent. For the footfall that is not part of the forest's song. Feel for the step that seeks, that hunts."
Li Ming tried to filter. He imagined his awareness as a net, letting the rustle of leaves and the scuttle of insects pass through, waiting to catch something heavier, more purposeful.
For a long time, there was nothing but the mountain's own rhythm.
Then, he felt it.
A vibration. Not one, but three. They moved together in a tight, disciplined pattern. Their footsteps did not wander; they searched. They moved in slow, sweeping arcs at the base of the mountain, near the old path that led to the Archives' hidden door. Their intent was a cold, focused probe, like icicles dripping, seeking a crack, a warmth, a anomaly.
The Stone-Serpent seekers. They were here.
A spike of fear shot through Li Ming, and his flimsy connection to the Archive's roots snapped.
He opened his eyes, back in his physical body, panting. The cold of the stone floor was a shock. "They're here. At the base of the mountain."
"Of course they are," Bai said, unimpressed. "You felt them. That is the first step. But you lost your root the moment you felt fear. Your foundation cracked. If they had been a spiritual attack in this moment, you would have been scattered to the winds."
"What do I do?" Li Ming asked, the immediacy of the threat overriding the lesson.
"You do nothing,' Lady Silken Death said. "The mountain and the Archives hide you. The door is sealed. They will find nothing but rock and old trees. Your problem is not their presence. Their problem is their persistence. And your problem is that you must learn to hold your root while knowing the wolf is at the door. That is true strength."
"…my solution was always to invite the wolf in for a drink… rarely worked out, but it was a grand time!"
"Again," Li Ming said, gritting his teeth. He closed his eyes and plunged back into the psychic space.
The next hours were a cycle of intense, frustrating practice. He would find the root-connection, push his awareness out, feel the three seeking presences, they were methodical, relentless, and then lose it all in a clutch of anxiety.
The echoes coached him in their own ways.
Bai was relentless: "Feel the mountain's age. Your fear is a mayfly's lifetime to the stone. Be the stone."
Silken Death was cunning: "Your fear is a thread. Do not cut it; use it. Weave it into your focus. Let the danger sharpen your senses, not blunt them."
The Drunken God was… unhelpful but insightful: "…you're trying to stand on a rolling barrel! No wonder you're falling! Sometimes you gotta sit down on the barrel and roll with it!"
The Abbot, as always, offered the key: "Do not be separate from the fear. Contain it. Your spirit is the lake. The fear is a stone thrown in. Let the waves happen, but do not let the stone crack the bed."
Slowly, gradually, he improved. He held the connection for ten breaths while sensing them. Then twenty. He felt their frustration as their search yielded nothing. He felt the moment one of them, a more sensitive one, paused and cast a finer, needle-like spiritual probe up the mountainside. It was a cold, intrusive touch that slithered over the hidden door, searching for a seam.
Li Ming's fear spiked, but he didn't let go of the root. He held. He was the mountain. The door was a mountain's tooth. The probe found only seamless rock and an ancient, dormant silence. It withdrew, puzzled.
The three seekers conferred in murmurs Li Ming couldn't hear, then began to withdraw, their patterns breaking as they moved back toward the distant river valley.
He had done it. He had held his ground without moving a muscle.
He released the connection and slumped forward, drenched in a cold, mental sweat. He was exhausted in a way food and sleep couldn't fix.
"Adequate," Bai pronounced. "You held. But you are a quivering leaf doing so. Foundation is not a technique you turn on. It must become your natural state. Your spirit must learn to live rooted, even in sleep."
"How long will that take?" Li Ming asked, his mental voice weak.
"A lifetime," Bai said simply. "But we have only days before those seekers return with sharper tools, or before a new 'scream' pulls you out into the world again. So we must accelerate."
Lady Silken Death's presence shimmered with anticipation. "My turn. You've learned to feel the spider's tread on your web. Now, you must learn to make the spider look the other way. Rest, little Keeper. When you wake, we weave lies."