Chapter 4: First Step Towards Cultivation by Scaring the Master Half to Death
Five years had gone by since that night on the riverbank, but up here in the mountains, time seemed to bend and lose shape. Sometimes Fang forgot to even count the seasons as they passed.
Once, she was just an unnamed slave girl, forgotten among many. Now, at thirteen, she had a name—Fang. Most kept their distance. She'd grown into a slim, sharp-eyed girl with quiet watchfulness in her bones. Her body still looked delicate, but anyone paying attention would notice the stubborn strength running through her, shaped by endless chores and the fight to survive. The old scars had faded—just pale reminders on her skin—proof of everything she'd endured and the promise she would never let herself forget.
She lived with her master in a weathered wooden hut perched high in the mist-wreathed mountains, close to the same dark forest where she'd once scrambled for her life. Master Lian had picked this spot on purpose—cold cliffs humming with yin energy kept most people out, and the pure spiritual qi that drifted down from the peaks fed those who understood how to use it. Fang didn't always grasp his lessons, not completely, but her trust in him was absolute.
Every day spun out in the same pattern, full of work and routine, but never easy. Before the sun rose, she swept the hut, fetched water, chopped wood, washed their clothes in freezing streams. She always paid extra attention to the tea—still slightly bitter, loaded with wild herbs she picked herself, just the way he liked it. In exchange, Master Lian taught her much more than you'd expect—more than most servants could imagine.
He showed her how to spot deadly mushrooms—some that killed fast, others that carved open the mind with hallucinations. She learned to read snake tracks and chase the difference between normal animals and demonic beasts. She could identify the telltale marks that meant danger was near, and she never forgot which creatures came out at sunrise and which waited for night. He even taught her to read and write, though some days she wanted to throw the brush across the room.
Still, his words echoed in her mind: "Knowledge is the sharpest blade, Fang. Anyone can swing a sword, but most just end up bleeding. Don't let anyone think you're an easy target."
That morning started like any other. Dawn crept in cold and gray. Fang knelt by the low table, steady and graceful, and poured a stream of hot tea into her master's favorite chipped cup. He sprawled against a cushion, one leg up, reading an old scroll with a half-smile and his black robes falling open at the neck.
All at once, he spoke. "Fang."
She stopped pouring, holding still. "Yes, Master?"
"Leave the tea. Today, I want to see what you're really made of."
She nodded, carefully setting the pot down. In the next few minutes, they sat facing each other—he on a cushion, her on a woven mat. That teasing expression lingered on his face, but something sharper sparkled underneath.
"Ever wondered about cultivation?" Master Lian's tone was casual, almost playful.
Fang hesitated, choosing her words. "I only know a little. You absorb something from the air. People use it to become stronger. That's all I understand."
He grinned. "So you think we all just breathe in a holy mist and—poof!—godhood?" It was a joke, but Fang was used to his needling. If anything, it made her try harder. She just shrugged. "That's about it. You'll explain the rest anyway."
He laughed, but his eyes shifted to something more serious. "Cultivation means drawing in spiritual qi from the world, refining it inside you. It strengthens your bones, meridians, even your soul—but first, we have to check your spirit roots. That decides your future."
He reached over and laid two fingers on her wrist. Warm energy pulsed through her arm. Fang didn't flinch—she just kept her eyes on him, searching his face.
At first, nothing changed. He looked bored. Then suddenly, all the mockery drained away; his eyes went wide, and his face turned pale. His breath sped up. Even his fingers shook a little.
Fang's heart thudded. "Master?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.
He jerked his hand away as though burned. For a long moment, he just stared, breath tight, face changed from its usual calm. For a man who faced monsters without blinking, he actually looked rattled.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and grave. "Never talk about your spirit roots. To anyone. Not a word. If others find out, even I might not be able to keep you safe."
Panic rose in her chest. "What are they?"
Master Lian dragged his hand through his hair, trying to find his composure. "You have both the Blessed Devil Root and the Cursed Immortal Root."
Seeing how lost she was, he pressed on.
"Most people have one, maybe two roots—Fire, Water, Wood, Metal, Earth. If you're born with three, you're already called a genius. The Blessed Devil Root is supreme, tied to yang. It gives you wild strength, eats qi like a beast, and pushes your body to monstrous power. People with it can shatter mountains, even become tyrants."
He took a breath. "The Cursed Immortal Root balances it—pure yin. Unbelievable healing, power to recover from nearly anything, a knack for understanding the dao, but it draws disaster, too. Heaven challenges you at every step. Anyone with that root climbs high… or brings chaos behind them."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp and serious. "Possessing them together, it's a perfect yin-yang balance. The kind of foundation people kill entire clans for. With both, no one knows your limits. But if the wrong people learn your secret, they'll chase you to the edge of the world."
Slowly, he leaned back, composing himself, but Fang could see tension hadn't fully left him.
Fang sat perfectly still, hands clenched so hard her knuckles went white. Years spent scrubbing floors and gathering wood, and suddenly she stood at the threshold of something completely different.
Master Lian looked her over—pride and heavy worry written into the lines around his eyes. He managed a small, almost relieved smile.
"So, my terrifying little Fang—are you ready to actually start cultivating? Or do you plan to serve tea for me for another decade?"
He held out his hand. This time it wasn't another test—it was an invitation.
Fang met his gaze, that old flicker of caution still there, but something new—determination—had taken root. She pressed her battered hand into his without flinching.
"Yes, Master," she said, her voice firm and steady. "I'm ready."