The old man sat outside the wooden house, calmly washing vegetables in a stone basin. Water flowed over his hands in a steady rhythm, reflecting the soft light of the afternoon sun.
There was nothing special about the scene.
No aura. No pressure. No visible power.
Just an ordinary old man doing ordinary work.
But the young man did not believe that for even a second.
He stood respectfully a few steps away, hands behind his back, posture straight. His eyes were sharp, constantly analyzing every small movement.
"Every action must have meaning," he thought. "A true expert never wastes motion."
The old man suddenly spoke without looking up.
"You keep saying you are cultivating."
"Yes, senior," the young man replied immediately.
"Then tell me," the old man continued calmly, "what is cultivation?"
The question landed quietly.
But in the young man's mind, it was like a heavy bell ringing.
He froze.
Cultivation?
That was too simple to define… and yet too vast.
His thoughts immediately exploded into dozens of concepts: Qi circulation, meridians, breaking through realms, absorbing spiritual energy, tempering the body, refining the soul…
But when he tried to speak, none of it came out cleanly.
Something felt… wrong.
The old man still didn't look at him. He just kept washing the vegetables slowly.
"Is it strength?" the old man asked.
The young man hesitated. "Partially…"
"Is it survival?"
"…Yes."
"Is it immortality?"
The young man paused again.
That word hit harder.
Immortality.
That was always the end goal in every cultivation path he knew.
But now, hearing it so directly in this calm environment, it felt strangely… hollow.
"…Yes," he answered again, but less confidently.
The old man finally finished washing the vegetables. He placed them aside carefully, then looked at the young man for the first time.
His eyes were calm.
Not sharp.
Not deep.
Just calm.
"Then let me ask again," he said softly. "What is cultivation?"
The young man's mind trembled slightly.
He opened his mouth… then closed it again.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he had no confident answer.
Not even one.
The silence stretched.
A soft wind passed through the yard, brushing the leaves of a nearby tree. The sound was gentle, almost soothing.
The old man spoke again.
"If you must think so hard to define it," he said, "maybe you are already far from it."
The young man's pupils contracted slightly.
"…Far from it?"
That sentence echoed in his mind.
Far… from cultivation?
Impossible.
He had studied it all his life. Read countless records. Memorized countless techniques.
And yet—
why did those words feel so heavy?
The old man stood up slowly and pointed toward the wooden house.
"Eat first," he said simply. "Then think less."
The young man hesitated.
"…Yes, senior."
But his mind did not obey the instruction.
Instead, it spun even faster.
Because for the first time—
he was beginning to question whether everything he knew was incomplete.