After entering the sect, Nilan stood quietly for a long moment.
People moved all around him—voices overlapping, footsteps passing by—yet he felt no urge to speak. A single question lingered in his mind: Where should I go? And whom should I ask?
From the outside, his problem appeared insignificant. Failing to carve something properly from wood—was that truly worth such hesitation?
But Nilan knew better.
This was not merely a failure of the hands.
After observing his surroundings for some time, he noticed an elderly disciple nearby. Approaching him, Nilan asked in a low voice,
"May I request guidance from an elder of the Outer Hall?"
The man glanced at him briefly, then pointed toward the distance.
"There is an elder over there."
Nilan followed the direction indicated.
He had never seen this elder before and did not know his name. Folding his hands, he spoke with respect,
"Elder, I have a question."
The elder looked at him calmly.
"Speak."
After a brief hesitation, Nilan said,
"I tried carving wood. The form is correct, and my technique isn't wrong.
But what I want to create… it never turns out as I imagine.
It feels like something is missing."
He stopped there.
Even he could not clearly define what that missing thing was.
The elder studied Nilan in silence. His gaze was neither harsh nor warm—only the steady calm of someone who had listened to countless doubts before. At last, he spoke slowly,
"What you describe is not a problem of the hands."
Nilan looked up, startled.
"If it were merely a flaw in technique, you would have realized it yourself," the elder continued.
"But you say that even when everything is correct, something remains absent.
That absence is the real problem."
Nilan did not speak.
The elder asked,
"What you wish to carve—perhaps a spiritual beast or bird—
have you ever seen such a thing with your own eyes?"
Lowering his head, Nilan replied,
"No, Elder. I have only seen images… and the works of others."
The elder nodded faintly.
"That is where your mistake lies."
Nilan looked up in surprise.
"Seeing something in an image and seeing it in reality are not the same," the elder said.
"In images, you see only form.
In reality, you see movement, temperament, and presence."
He lightly tapped the ground with his finger.
"You wish to give life to wood, yet you do not understand life itself.
How, then, can the wood respond to you?"
A faint tremor passed through Nilan's chest.
"Art is not merely the work of the hands," the elder continued.
"First, observe.
Then, understand.
Only then attempt to place what you understand into the wood."
After a brief pause, he added,
"This too is a form of cultivation.
Cultivation is not limited to strength or combat alone.
The ability to understand also grows through practice."
Nilan took a slow breath.
He had never heard such words before—yet strangely, they aligned perfectly with the unease he had felt all along.
The elder offered his final advice,
"Go. Observe first, with your own eyes.
Then return to your work."
Nilan bowed deeply.
Though his problem was not fully resolved, a clear direction had formed within him for the first time.
After the elder departed, Nilan remained standing there for a while. He felt neither sudden confidence nor despair. He simply understood—this was not yet the stage for grand creations.
Dragons. Phoenixes.
Those were distant matters.
He lacked both the strength and the vision for them.
Looking down at his hands, Nilan thought,
For now, my place is with small things.
From that day onward, he did not change his path—
he only made his goal smaller.
In the Outer Hall, he began carving small wooden pieces. Not complete creatures, but fragments—wings, claws, the curve of an eye, traces of motion—one part at a time.
Not all of them succeeded.
Many failed.
But this time, he did not stop.
One day, while absorbed in his work, he noticed many disciples gathered on one side of the Outer Hall. Some whispered among themselves, others stared intently at a notice board.
Curious, Nilan approached.
A large wooden board stood there, a fresh notice pinned to it—written in bold strokes of black ink.
He read:
"The period of preparation to enter the Inner Hall has begun.
Only half a year remains."
A subtle pressure settled in Nilan's chest.
Below it, more lines followed:
"Within the next three months,
the most outstanding disciples of the Outer Hall will be selected.
The selection will be conducted through trials—
combat, training, and practical cultivation."
This was not a declaration of war.
But it was no game either.
Nilan understood—
this was the final gate of the Outer Hall.
Around him, voices grew louder. Some were excited. Some anxious. Some filled with confidence.
Nilan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the board.
His time was short.
But he also knew—
This was the small stage
from which a greater path would begin.
He returned to his place and picked up the piece of wood once more.
Now, his mind held only one thought—
Start with small things.
Because what lay ahead
would not be small at all.