Taiyeng awoke to the rhythmic *thump-thump* of Ryunhia attempting to brush the courtyard slate outside his quarters. It was a miserable dawn, the kind where mist clung to the jagged ridges and Qilong felt particularly damp and ancient. He squinted at the grey light filtering through his single, grimy window. Barely dawn, and the girl was already at it. Her enthusiasm, he mused, was both a blessing and a monumental nuisance. It had been easier when she was just a weeping runaway; now she was a *devoted* royal exile, and her zeal pinned him like an anvil.
He emerged to find her attempting to gouge moss from between the pavers with bristle wood, her slight frame hunched with furious concentration. The splintered statue from yesterday was nowhere to be seen, likely whisked away by some silent servant before dawn. Good. Less to remind him of his accidental adoption. Taiyeng cleared his throat, a low rumble that made Ryunhia jump, nearly dropping the broom.
“Elder!” she blurted, a smudge of charcoal-colored soil marring her cheek. “This disciple apologizes for disturbing your rest! I only wished to begin my duties before the early bell.”
Taiyeng grunted. “Your duties,” he said, pulling a stiff knot from his back with a crack. “Are not scraping moss. They are… more arduous.” He watched her face, hoping for a flicker of dismay. Nothing. Only eager anticipation. This girl was going to be the death of his peace.
“Come,” he instructed, leading her away from the servant’s courtyard, past the austere meditation halls and towards the less-frequented southern paths. The air grew colder, the sound of rushing water growing louder with every step. They passed under gnarled boughs shedding dried needles and brown husks in an endless drift. Finally, they reached the site: the Cataract of Driftwood Plummet, a narrow plunge pool that tumbled down a sheer granite bluff, its spray soaking a wide rock shelf. Wind currents shook loose foliage into the swirling pool and across wet quartz below.
“Your first task,” Taiyeng said, gesturing with a rough palm, “is to clear this shelf completely. Every stray husk. Every speck of grit. It stays barren until noon. While you work, scrub the approach path. With these.” He produced two thick, iron-bound buckets, each filled with river stones and water, impossibly heavy. “No Qi. Only strength. Understand?”
Ryunhia stared at the impossible chore, then at the buckets, her brow furrowed. “Master… how does one clear a ledge where canopy debris falls without ceasing?” Her voice was small, dry with bewilderment rather than complaint.
Taiyeng kept his jaw still. “That, disciple, is for you to discover. If you cannot hold the stone bare, you are not worthy of the Scorched Path. Complain, and you leave.” He turned, steps crunching over shale. “I will inspect your work at midday.”
He expected her to give up within the hour, perhaps sit down and weep again. He expected to find her later, shivering and defeated, ready to renounce her accidental master. What he found instead, three hours later, was… chaos.
Returning toward the cataract, Taiyeng heard the damage before he saw it: sharp fracturing noises, followed by a guttural roar far too deep for Ryunhia’s frame. He rounded the spur and stopped dead. The torrent still surged over the precipice, but the stone apron was shredded. Crushed hollows pitted the ledge like siege craters. The gorge hummed with raw spiritual friction. Ryunhia swung her broom shaft like an iron cudgel, not clearing litter but detonating pine husks with abrupt pulses of energy. Her strikes cracked the air like whipcord, scattering pulverized mulch, spray, and rock shards while scoring fresh furrows into the shelf.
Her blue silk trailed in ribbons at the hems, soaked hair plastered against her forehead. Her pupils were pinpoint sharp. She was not doing chores; she was waging war against gravity and pine branches. One iron bucket served as a wedge jammed under a cracked slab; the second sat crumpled in the creek silt.
“Elder!” Ryunhia gasped, wheeling about with heaving ribs, sparks spitting along the frayed broom twigs. “The canopy… it never empties! I tried clearing the slate, but it never stops. So I tried burning them! Then I tried crushing them!” Her voice rasped with stubborn defiance. “I haven’t quit!”
Taiyeng surveyed the fractured granite. This was not quiet resignation; it was a trench line. He knew the signs of fractured inner pathways: splintered channels forcing power outward through blunt, reckless panic. Drive a cracked jade vessel too hard and the whole thing detonates.
A dry chuckle drifted from the treeline. Oyun leaned against a boulder, scroll tucked in hand and sheep-hair brush behind an ear. “Impressive,” the scribe murmured, inspecting the rubble. “Radical terrace renovation? I have never seen this ledge quite so... perforated.”
Taiyeng scowled. “She broke the mountain, Oyun.”
Oyun tilted his head. “A vigorous girl, and a mentor cultivating her talents. Calm yourself. A few shattered boulders are easily entered as rockslide subsidence. I will adjust the ledgers before the senior monks ask questions about vigorous broom drills.”
Taiyeng leveled a flat stare at the scribe. “Enough.” He turned toward Ryunhia, whose aura hissed like damp embers. He had tried to exhaust her into leaving; instead, he had nearly pressured a broken soul into an internal blowout. A ruptured meridian would kill her before dusk.
“Ryunhia,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft despite the chaos. “Put down the broom.”
She blinked, the tension dropping from her shoulders. “Elder, the canopy—”
“Forget the trees,” Taiyeng cut in. “You proved your stubbornness. But this is not the Path. Your core is a cracked riverbed and you are hammering it against stone. From now on, you learn containment. Real restraint. I will show you.”
Ryunhia parted her lips, stunned disbelief replacing the battle frenzy. “You will truly instruct me?”
“Yes,” Taiyeng said, biting back a curse as he looked at the ruin. “Starting with not leveling the valley.” He glanced at Oyun. “Keep your ink ready.”
Oyun chuckled. “My supply of stone-gray ink faces early depletion.”
Before Taiyeng could retort, a low, resonant chime echoed through the mountain valley. Not the gentle morning bell, nor the insistent midday one. This was a deeper, more ominous sound, a warning bell cast from blood-red bronze, its mournful thrum vibrating through their bones. The sound of the Blood-Red Chime. It only rang when a neighboring sect, a sister monastery, or an allied stronghold had fallen. Completely. Utterly. Overnight. Oyun’s smile vanished, head jerking toward the northern ridge. Ryunhia shrank back against her scorched broom handle. Taiyeng stood motionless, feeling the low bronze hum shake dust from the pines. Peace, it seemed, had run out.