Morning arrived soft and bright, threading sunlight through the mist that had cloaked the Restart Sect for days. The mountain seemed calmer after its late-night conversation with Chen Yuan. The new spirals Lin Mei had cultivated now shimmered faintly in gold instead of green, steady as a pulse under the soil.
Chen Yuan sat on the front steps of the main hall, sipping something only *technically* tea. (He swore it was "spirit-leaf infusion," though it tasted unmistakably like boiled grass.) Li An's maps and stones lay scattered beside him, updated each dawn.
"Master," Lin Mei called from the courtyard, breathless with excitement. "It worked!"
He raised a brow as she rushed in, hair messy, eyes bright. The girl held out a cracked clay pot, and in it—coaxed up by her spade's careful qi—grew a small sapling covered in faintly glowing leaves.
Chen Yuan leaned forward, amused. "Don't tell me you've accidentally invented radioactive parsley again."
"No," she said, laughing. "When I breathed near it, the leaves *moved*. Like they were… listening."
He set his cup down and waved for her to demonstrate.
Lin Mei closed her eyes, inhaled the way her technique had taught her, and exhaled slow and calm. The little tree quivered, then—remarkably—tilted its leaves toward her face.
Li An, crouched nearby, tapped his Whisperwind Rod. "It's attuned to her qi signature."
"She's growing a cultivation detector," Zhang Wei said, half teasing. "Next thing you know, we'll have talking plants."
"Not talking," Lin Mei protested. "Responding."
Chen Yuan chuckled. "Same thing, if you're patient enough to listen."
***
### Morning Lessons
After breakfast—where Song Yu proved surprisingly talented at cutting root vegetables so fine they were practically lace—Chen Yuan clapped his hands for attention.
"Alright, sprouts. New exercise today."
They groaned in unison.
"Don't whine," he said. "It's not that bad. This one teaches you how your tools react when you *don't* use them as intended." His tone turned mischievous. "The world won't always cooperate with your preferred methods."
Each disciple had to use another's equipment for an hour under supervision.
Zhang Wei was first. He eyed Li An's Whisperwind Rod like a man looking at a puzzle piece that refused to fit. "What am I supposed to do with a stick that hums at me?"
"Same thing you do with everything else," Song Yu said dryly. "Lift it."
Chen Yuan smothered a laugh. "Try aligning your breath to its rhythm instead of forcing strength through it. The rod works through awareness."
Zhang Wei did—and blinked as subtle vibrations traced along his arms. When he moved, the wind curved behind him rather than against him. He frowned thoughtfully. "Feels like… breathing through stone."
"Exactly," Chen Yuan said. "Stone that doesn't fight the wind stands for centuries."
Next, Li An tried Lin Mei's Earthturner Spade. He was skeptical at first but humored her instruction. Pressing its edge to the dirt, he muttered the breathing pattern she taught him. The ground beneath shivered, softening slightly.
"Huh." He tilted his head. "It listens with less pride than people."
"Because it doesn't overthink," she teased, cheeks pink.
Song Yu stepped next and accepted Zhang Wei's Burdenbinder Sash. She slipped it over her shoulders and tugged at one of the runed straps. It adjusted instantly, conforming to her lean frame.
"Feels heavier than it looks," she said.
"It balances with your limbs," Wei explained. "Breathe wrong, and it punishes you."
She did. For a moment, her form blurred under her Veilwalk Cloak as the harness redistributed her stance. Then she laughed—low and surprised. "It hides small movements behind larger ones. A cloak's perfect partner."
"See?" Chen Yuan said, satisfied. "Teamwork. Even between tools."
Finally, Lin Mei reached for Song Yu's Veilwalk Cloak. It shimmered between her fingers like liquid dusk.
The moment she tried to put it on, the fabric fluttered rebelliously, resisting her like a living thing.
"It doesn't like me," she said with a small laugh of embarrassment.
"Not dislike," Song Yu replied softly. "It's just unused to… loud energy."
Chen Yuan chuckled. "You two are opposites—earth and shadow. One digs in, the other slips away. It'll learn to harmonize eventually."
He turned to all four. "Lesson of the day: don't cling to one rhythm. When your qi ties to the mountain, it learns to shift—solid one moment, fluid the next. Adapt, and no one can corner you."
***
### When Wind Brought Voices
By afternoon, Song Yu was conducting patrol drills. Flashing in and out of sight with her new cloak, she scouted the slope's defensive paths while Li An logged every hidden vantage point.
Up the trail, Zhang Wei hauled logs into place for practice dummies; Lin Mei tended to her listening saplings.
Then the wind changed.
Li An froze mid-step. His rod emitted a faint chime—a cautious, anxious tone that vibrated through the still air. Song Yu materialized immediately, eyes narrowing.
Someone was humming on the lower path.
The melody wasn't threatening—if anything, it sounded wistful, like the tune an old farmer might sing while planting seeds. But it echoed far too loudly for one voice.
Chen Yuan stepped out of the hall as if he'd been waiting for it. "Well," he said, dusting his robe, "either we have company, or the mountain's finally picked up a hobby."
The humming grew louder, and around the ridge appeared a small caravan—three donkeys, two carts, and a man in patched traveling robes leading them. He was middle-aged, sun-dark, with a broad smile and a pack of wooden charms jangling at his belt.
"Greetings!" he called cheerfully. "Is this the Restart Sect?"
"It depends who's asking," Song Yu said calmly, visible but poised.
"A merchant," the man replied without guile. "Name's Hua Ren. I trade in simple things—salt, flour, cloth—and sometimes stories. Heard rumor of a sect that buys from everyone and sells kindness in return."
Chen Yuan raised a brow. "Well, that's certainly more complimentary than *weird hermits with gardening fetishes*—which I'm pretty sure was last week's version."
The merchant laughed. "Rumors grow like weeds. But I figured I'd see which kind of weed you were."
Chen Yuan gestured him forward. "Come on then, Traveler Hua. Let's see what the weeds have to trade."
***
### Trade and Trust
While Zhang Wei helped unload goods and Lin Mei inspected sacks of grain, Chen Yuan and the merchant settled under the shade of a pine, cups of thin tea between them.
"You've started something unusual here, old friend," Hua Ren said. "A sect that guards orphans and rejects instead of resources. That stirs talk."
"Talk's cheaper than intent," Chen Yuan replied evenly. "Besides, someone's got to handle the overflow from sects that only recruit looking for trophies."
"Still," Hua Ren mused, "If I were less honest, I could sell news of your disciples' gifts for a tidy sum."
Song Yu, standing half-hidden behind the merchant, let her cloak shimmer faintly. "If you *were* less honest," she said softly, "you'd already be covered in vines."
To everyone's surprise, Hua Ren only laughed louder. "Ah! Good to know this mountain's guardians don't skip humor." He raised his cup toward her. "Rest easy, ghost. I sell only what helps, not what harms."
Chen Yuan watched him carefully, then smiled faintly. "And what is it you think we need most?"
The merchant's eyes twinkled. "Time. Something to buy you more time to grow before the wrong sect decides to prune your mountain."
He set down a small chest. When opened, it revealed a scattering of round metal plates etched with simple runes. "Deflection talismans. Not powerful. But when nailed to doorposts and charged with calm intent, they redirect aggressive qi—like a polite broom sweeping anger away."
Lin Mei clasped her hands, delighted. "That's perfect for the wall!"
Zhang Wei grinned. "See? Even walls need friends."
Chen Yuan inclined his head. "We'll take them. You'll eat with us before heading down."
As dusk settled, Hua Ren shared food and laughter with them, listening to stories of the sect's early days, eyes glimmering with genuine respect. Before leaving, he fastened one talisman above the main gate himself.
"For luck," he said. "And for the rumor I'll take back—the kind that keeps vultures away."
Chen Yuan smiled as he watched the merchant's lanterns wind down the slope. "The kind that says what?"
Hua Ren grinned. "That your mountain grows thorns… but blooms for the brave."
***
### Roots and Whispers
Later, the disciples slept while Chen Yuan made one last walk through the garden. The air was thick with quiet, broken only by a rustling among the new listening saplings.
To his surprise, they swayed toward him, leaves trembling just enough to whisper—soft, near inaudible—like children reciting in their sleep:
*Thank you.*
Chen Yuan stopped, throat tight. Then he smiled and whispered back, "Just water and patience, little ones. Same as the rest of us."
He turned toward the stars glittering faintly above the mist.
In the stillness, the talisman at the gate stirred in the wind, faintly glowing as if answering.
The Restart Sect slept beneath wards not of power, but of intent—light, laughter, leaves, and the faint echo of a merchant's song disappearing into the distance.