The next morning, Lorel met the elderly woman by the well in the village center. The air was sharp and clear.
"You are very early, child. I like that," the woman said, her voice like dry leaves rustling.
Lorel smiled, a polite, careful expression. "The melody played last night was very soothing. I would really like to learn, if it is possible."
The elderly lady's eyes crinkled. "Fine. Follow me." She seemed very happy as she turned, her steps slow but sure on the packed snow. Lorel followed calmly behind, lost in her thoughts.
Last night, she hadn't slept well. She had thought things would get better after the year apart, that the new understanding between her and Gen would settle into something easier. But he was too stubborn to let go of his pride. So she had met his stubbornness with her own. They weren't talking. Each stayed on their own side of a silent wall.
"My child, why are you suddenly lost in your thoughts this way?" the old lady asked without turning.
Lorel smiled shyly, bowing her head even though the woman couldn't see. "It is nothing big," she said.
The elderly woman pushed open a heavy wooden door with some effort, its bottom scraping through snow. "I was just like you back then. You do not have to be scared about it."
Lorel followed her inside and was startled. It was a music room. Simple harps of polished, dark wood were placed on stands on both sides of the small space. A little table held sheets of annotated paper. The air smelled of aged wood and resin.
"Are you the one who played last night?" Lorel asked, her voice soft with awe.
The woman nodded, seating herself on a low stool next to one of the harps. She gestured for Lorel to sit opposite her. "This music… it always allows us to express a lot of things we would not normally be able to express. The day I learned to speak with my instrument was the day I could truly hear. I can hear the rhythm, the music, of your young heart. It is still full of love."
Lorel bailed her fist in her lap, looking down at her own hands. "Gen is too stupid. He would not even accept help, although he needs it. Sometimes I feel like he has grown up these past two years. Other times, I feel like he has not really changed at all."
The old lady sighed, a gentle sound. She reached out and plucked a single string on her harp.
*Plink.*
The note hung in the quiet room. To Lorel, it was not just a sound. It was a feeling, a cascade of images—a flower blooming in a sudden shaft of sun, its petals vibrant for a single, perfect day, then slowly fading, curling at the edges, falling softly to the earth. An entire story, told in one clear tone. Was it Qi added to the instrument? Lorel could not tell.
She turned, confused, to the old lady.
"Do not bother yourself with the 'how,'" the woman said, her gaze knowing. "I have been through such a thing, too, in the past. But I grew past it. Either he will learn and value your presence, or he will lose it forever."
Lorel answered without much thought, the words leaving her lips with a quiet certainty. "I do not really think I want to leave."
The old lady's smile was gentle, but held a depth of old sorrow. "You would not have a choice at that time. Now, come over here and learn."
Lorel cast the disturbing thought from her mind and focused. The old lady taught her the basics—how to position her hands, the names of the strings, how to pluck for clarity versus for resonance. Lorel's first attempts were a jumble of discordant sounds, a chaotic battlefield of notes that had no relation to each other.
The old lady shook her head, then lightly tapped Lorel's knuckles with her cane. "See? This is what your heart is saying right now. Noise and conflict."
Lorel was startled by the directness.
"If you want to play something soothing, you will have to sort out what is inside here." The woman pointed a bony finger at Lorel's own chest. "This melody is ideal for you to start. It is called *The Last Line*. One of my favorites."
Lorel picked up the notes book. The symbols were unfamiliar, a language of lines and dots she had never learned. She didn't mind. She took the challenge, her brow furrowed in concentration as she matched the symbols to the strings, her fingers clumsy but determined.
***
Later that day, Gen meditated out in the open, seated on a folded blanket in the snow. Although he could not walk yet, he could not slack off. Training his Qi for his future clash with Buqu was all that mattered.
The **God Asylum** required him to train his **Shidow** to perfection, to be able to trap an opponent in a realm of his own making where he could control the terms of the fight. After training with Varja, it had gotten better. But since then, he had let it slide. He needed a target of quality to practice on.
Buqu.
Gen closed his eyes, spreading his awareness through his Qi. He let it flow out from his Sea Acupoint, a fine, seeking net of **Shidow** energy that brushed over the sleeping village, feeling for the brightest, most oppressive light in the area.
With a faint thought, he found it. Buqu was leaning lazily against a snowbank on the far side of the village as if it were a sunny meadow. The snow had already covered his entire body in a thick layer, but he didn't seem to care, sleeping soundlessly. A small winter bird had landed on his head, chirping softly.
Gen focused his attention, his will sharpening. He tried to compress the conceptual space of the **God Asylum**, to draw its borders around Buqu's sleeping form, to create a pocket where his will was law.
The other party simply turned over in his sleep, the motion casual, as if swatting away a mildly annoying fly. The carefully constructed net of **Shidow** energy shredded like cobwebs.
Gen was speechless. He tried again. And again. He spent the entire day, his brow furrowed in sweat despite the cold, his Qi churning. He didn't make a single form of progress. At this rate, it was hard to believe this skill really had the power the legends spoke of. He bit his lip in frustration, withdrawing his awareness back into his own body with a sharp, mental recoil.
After a while of cycling his Qi through his three open Acupoints—the steady **Jingdao** from his Root, the fluid **Shidow** from his Sea, the nascent, humming potential of **Zhidow** from his Heart—he noticed a figure returning.
It was Lorel, walking with the old woman. They were laughing and smiling like old friends. A strange, tight feeling clenched in Gen's chest.
"Hey, Lorel!" he called out.
Intentionally or not, she passed a few meters away with the lady without taking a single look in his direction. She didn't pause, didn't acknowledge his voice. She just kept walking, her smile still on her face as she listened to something the old woman was saying.
Gen's frown deepened. What had happened in the past few days? *Whatever. She would not be able to avoid him for long. She can't.* He huffed inwardly. After all, he wasn't going to stay like this forever. He glanced down at his crossed legs, willing sensation into them. "Will you move, damn things…"
***
The week bled by. Gen could still not move. Irritation was the order of the day—a constant, simmering anger that he turned inward and outward. He cursed his body, the snow, the silence, and kept all his friends at a sharp, sullen distance. He hated being seen like this. Back then, when he had lost his Jingdao, only Liang had been aware of that weakness. He could still stand proudly in front of anyone. But now? Now he was trapped, helpless in this chair, and the feeling—the careful, pitying look in their eyes—was driving him mad.
One afternoon, Liang had just finished helping him to the privy, a silent, tense process. As he settled Gen back into the hated wooden chair with more force than necessary, Liang finally snapped.
"You are going too far with this, Gen." Liang's voice was flat, all his usual wry patience gone. "If you really think you do not need any help, then fine. I am tired. I am going out. Alone."
He turned and walked to the door, not looking back.
Gen glanced at the disappearing figure, biting his lip hard enough to taste copper. But he said nothing, the words of admission or apology stuck in his throat, welded there by pride and a furious, childish unwillingness to be wrong.