八

  ***

  The mountain felt as if it had breathed.

  Each inhalation a frigid gust that swept down from the snow-laden peaks, each exhalation a warm current rising from the sun-baked lower slopes.

  In that era, before the gilded falsehoods of Khetsu’s reign, before Zhao Tang was possibly even born, before Xiao Tang killed himself under a fountain while attempting to meditate...

  The Evernest Sect was a structure carved from necessity, intended for spiritual purpose and enlightenment.

  Its stone walls were bare, weathered by countless seasons of relentless wind and driving snow, their surfaces stained not with gold leaf, but with the patina of discipline.

  Dark patches where countless hands had sought purchase, smoothed surfaces where bodies had slid in exhaustion, and subtle indentations where feet had planted themselves for generation after generation of meditative practice.

  The architecture was functional, austere, designed not for comfort but for the harsh pinnacle of spiritual refinement.

  The air was a constant, potent cocktail of burning juniper incense.

  Its sharp, cleansing scent cutting through the cold, and the raw, metallic scent of the mountain itself, carried on drafts that seeped through every crack and crevice.

  This was a place of quiet struggle, of peasant-zealots and grueling, repetitive motions designed to forge the will into something as unyielding as the granite beneath their feet.

  The fragrance of pine needles, damp earth, and distant glacial melt mingled with the ever-present juniper, creating an olfactory tapestry that spoke of hardship and transcendence in equal measure.

  Yeng, then a younger man, though ancient in spirit, knelt on a cold stone platform in the main courtyard.

  Despite appearing in his mid-thirties, he had a growth of grey facial hair and wrinkles, unbecoming of a youthful man.

  His back was straight as a spear shaft, his hands resting on his knees with palms upturned, fingers curled into the mystical mudra of receiving.

  His eyes were half-closed, focused inward on the subtle currents of energy flowing through his meridians.

  Before him, a dozen disciples sat in perfect formation, their young faces contorted in concentration as they guided their Qi through the grueling thirty-six cycles of the “Foundation Breathing” technique.

  Their shallow, synchronized breaths were the only sound, a soft, rhythmic sighing against the vast, indifferent silence of the peak, a chorus of human effort against the backdrop of nature’s majesty.

  Each breath was a battle, each exhalation a small victory over the body’s limitations.

  Then, a new sound intruded.

  It began as a distant clatter, like stones dislodged by an unseen hand, growing louder and more desperate as it approached.

  A frantic, scrambling noise from the stairway carved into the mountain’s flank, a narrow, treacherous path that wound its way up from the valley below.

  The sound of feet slipping on loose shale, of hands scrabbling for purchase on worn rock, of panicked breathing echoing off the stone walls.

  A young disciple, his face flushed and beaded with sweat from the perilous descent, stumbled into the courtyard.

  His robes were torn at the hem, stained with dirt and what looked like soot, and his chest heaved with the effort of his rapid ascent and the terror that propelled him forward.

  He fell to his knees before the assembled cultivators, gasping for air, his hands slapping against the stone as he fought to catch his breath.

  “Master!” he cried, his voice cracking with panic, raw with urgency.

  "F-Fire!" He fixed his composure, attempting to deliver the news properly; “Fire! At the base! The village… it’s burning!” The words tore from his throat, each one a desperate plea against the backdrop of the disciples’ tranquil practice.

  His eyes were wide with horror, reflecting some unseen nightmare, and as he knelt there trembling, the scent of smoke and burning wood suddenly seemed to permeate the courtyard, carried on the mountain’s breath like a harbinger of destruction.

  A wave of unease rippled through the seated disciples.

  Their concentration shattered.

  Whispers erupted, laced with fear.

  The base of the mountain was a day’s journey, the path narrow and treacherous even in the best conditions.

  To face a raging fire after such a descent… it was a suicide mission.

  Yeng’s eyes, half-closed in meditation, opened slowly.

  There was no alarm in them, only a cold, assessing calm.

  He rose to his feet, a single, fluid motion that commanded immediate silence.

  “The path is steep,” one of the older disciples ventured, his voice trembling slightly despite his attempt at composure.

  “The heat… the smoke. Our Qi would be depleted before we even arrived.” His words hung in the crisp mountain air, mingling with the scent of juniper and the faint, acrid smell of smoke now beginning to drift upward from the valley below.

  Several other disciples nodded in agreement, their faces pale, the fear evident in the way their hands clenched and unclenched in their laps.

  The memory of their grueling ascent to the sect, the exhaustion that had settled deep in their bones, was still fresh.

  The thought of descending that same treacherous path, now compounded by the oppressive heat of a raging fire and the suffocating smoke, was a terror that seized their hearts.

  They hesitated.

  Hesitation.

  It was a poison in the path of cultivation, a weakness that could fester and consume the spirit from within.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Yeng’s gaze swept over the disciples, his eyes like chips of flint in the fading light.

  He saw their fear, palpable in the thin air, a wavering distortion in the flow of their Qi.

  He saw the way they shrank back from his stare, their postures slumping, their resolve crumbling under the weight of self-preservation.

  It was a familiar sight, a failing he had witnessed countless times over his long life, a test that separated the wheat from the chaff, the true seekers from the dabblers.

  “Those who fear the heat of the world,” he said, his voice as neutral and unforgiving as the winter wind that scoured the mountain peaks, “have no place seeking the heat of inner alchemy.”

  His words were not a rebuke, but a statement of fact, a cold, clinical diagnosis of their spiritual condition.

  The path of Dao was not one of comfort and safety; it was a crucible, a forge where the soul was tempered in the fires of adversity.

  If they could not face a mere physical fire, how could they ever hope to withstand the spiritual conflagrations that lay ahead?

  He made a simple, almost casual gesture with his hand, a flick of the wrist that was as dismissive as it was decisive.

  “Leave. You are no longer disciples of this sect.” The finality in his tone was absolute, a verdict that brooked no appeal.

  The courtyard was stunned into absolute silence, the only sound the distant wail of the wind and the crackle of imaginary flames in the disciples’ minds.

  The hesitant disciples stared, their faces a canvas of disbelief and shame, their pride shattered into a million pieces.

  One opened his mouth to plead, his lips moving soundlessly, but closed it again, seeing the cold, unyielding resolve in Yeng’s eyes, a resolve as ancient and unmovable as the mountain itself.

  One by one, heads bowed, they rose to their feet, their movements stiff and awkward.

  They shuffled away, their disgrace a heavier burden than any mountain pack, their dreams of immolation turned to ash in their mouths.

  Without another word, Yeng turned and strode toward the mountain path, his robes whipping around him like the wings of a great, dark bird.

  He did not look back to see who followed, for his path was his own.

  He descended alone, a solitary figure against the vast, indifferent backdrop of the mountain, his steps sure and confident on the treacherous path.

  The air grew warmer as he descended, the scent of smoke stronger, a bitter, acrid smell that clung to the back of his throat.

  The village at the mountain’s foot was a skeleton, a grotesque parody of the thriving community it had once been.

  Blackened straws, splinted wood, jutted into the sky like broken bones, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of burned wood and sorrow.

  The fire had passed, leaving only smoldering ruins and weeping survivors huddled in small groups, their faces streaked with soot and tears.

  The silence was broken only by the crackle of dying embers and the mournful cries of those who had lost everything.

  Yeng moved through the devastation with the same cold efficiency he had shown in the courtyard.

  He stepped over fallen timbers and navigated around collapsed structures, his eyes scanning the wreckage with a practiced, discerning gaze.

  He offered no empty words of comfort, for they were but ash in the mouth, useless in the face of such overwhelming loss.

  His purpose was singular, his focus unwavering.

  To find survivors. He could sense someone.

  Someone still stuck, a young soul.

  He found him in the remains of what was once a hut, its charred walls still radiating a ghostly heat against his palms.

  Amidst the smoldering wreckage, a small, soot-stained figure huddled, his body wracked with silent, convulsive sobs that seemed to shake the very air around him.

  He was a beautiful child, perhaps nine years old, his features fine and delicate even beneath a thick layer of grey ash that clung to his eyelashes and caked the corners of his mouth.

  Yeng knelt, the smell of burned timber and lingering smoke filling his nostrils, a reminder of the fragility of mortal existence.

  He did not speak.

  He simply reached out, his fingers gently wiping a streak of soot from the boy's cheek to confirm what he already sensed, the faint but unmistakable flicker of nascent Qi, a spark of potential amidst the devastation.

  "You are a boy," Yeng stated, a simple fact in a world of chaos.

  "You will come with me." The boy looked up, his eyes wide and red from crying, but not with fear.

  With a profound, hollow emptiness that mirrored the desolation around them, a void where a childhood should have been.

  Years passed, seasons cycling through the mountains like the breath of a sleeping giant.

  The boy, given the traditional Tibetan name Khetsun,

  "The Disciplined", grew within the austere walls of the Evernest, his spirit forged within the aims of loss and discipline.

  He excelled in his studies, his movements precise, his dedication unwavering, yet a subtle brittleness clung to him, like frost on a winter morning.

  But as the sect's reputation slowly spread, new disciples began to arrive, not from the local villages, but from distant lands, drawn by whispers of spiritual power and the promise of transcendence.

  They brought with them new influences, new scripts, and new cruelties, their arrogance a stark contrast to the humble origins of the Evernest.

  They targeted Khetsun for his origin, for his lack of a prestigious lineage, their subtle barbs and overt jabs testing the foundations of his hard-won composure. They whispered behind his back, their voices like venomous insects in the quiet halls of meditation.

  The mockery, born from a vulgar Japanese script that had somehow made its way to the peaks, was simple and brutal.

  They began to call him "Khetsu," a deliberate corruption of his given name, twisting its meaning from "The Disciplined" to something coarse and demeaning, stripping him of his identity one syllable at a time.

  It meant, "Buttocks, Bottom, Rear." The disfiguration of the name stretched to, "Swine or 'One without shelter.""

  One evening, as the sun cast long, jagged shadows across the courtyard, the whispers coalesced into a direct challenge.

  A larger disciple, his face flushed with the arrogance of perceived superiority, blocked Khetsun’s path, a smirk playing on his lips.

  "Get out of the way, Khetsu," he sneered, the insult hanging in the crisp mountain air like a physical blow.

  The courtyard fell silent, all eyes on the scene, the tension a palpable thing, as heavy as the ancient stones that surrounded them.

  Khetsun stopped, his posture rigid.

  He did not look at the other disciple, but at the setting sun, its light catching the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the cold, hard glint in his eyes.

  He was no longer the soot-stained orphan, but a blade forged in Yeng's unforgiving fire.

  He turned, his gaze locking onto the other's, a look of such cold intensity that the larger disciple actually took a step back, his smugness faltering.

  "Khetsu," Khetsun said, his voice quiet, yet it carried a chilling finality that silenced the courtyard.

  He spoke the name not with shame or anger, but with a sense of utter ownership, as if he were accepting a title bestowed upon him by the mountain itself.

  "That is my name now." He did not fight the insult; he embraced it, stripping it of its power and claiming it as his own, transforming a mark of shame into a badge of defiance.

  He held the larger disciple's gaze for a long, silent moment, the challenge clear in the set of his jaw, the unyielding line of his shoulders.

  The other disciple, faced with this unwavering resolve, this sudden, unexpected reversal, could only stare, his face a mixture of confusion and dawning fear.

  Without another word, Khetsu turned and walked away, leaving the larger disciple standing there, the insult now a hollow, impotent thing between them.

  The mockery died that day, replaced by a grudging, almost fearful respect. Khetsu’s talent, no longer shackled by the need to prove himself, began to blossom.

  He mastered forms in weeks that took others years, his understanding of Qi deepening at an astonishing rate.

  He became Yeng’s most trusted disciple, not through blind obedience, but through a shared understanding of the harsh realities of the path.

  He was the master's enforcer, the one who maintained the discipline of the sect, his presence a constant, silent reminder of the price of weakness.

  Stability settled over the Evernest, a fragile peace forged in the crucible of conflict and tempered by Yeng's unwavering will.

  Then, one morning, Yeng was gone.

  He had vanished without a word, without a warning, as if he had been erased from the face of the mountain.

  The only trace of him was a single, solitary letter left on his meditation cushion, the paper cool to the touch, the ink dry and unforgiving.

  Khetsu found it, his heart a cold stone in his chest, the familiar, comforting scent of juniper incense suddenly seeming alien and unwelcome in the master's empty quarters.

  The letter was short, a final, decisive act that passed the burden of the sect’s survival onto Khetsu’s shoulders alone.

  The command was absolute, a test of everything he had learned, everything he had become.

  The final line of the letter, a stark, black script that seemed to burn in the dim light of the room, was etched into Khetsun’s memory.

  It was a declaration, a promise, and a challenge all in one, a line that would reverberate through the years, a haunting echo of the master’s final, enigmatic purpose.

  And now, that same line shimmered in the bronze mirror, a ghostly reflection of a past that refused to die, a promise that had led to a horror he was only beginning to comprehend.

  "I will pursue the heights of Mount Chomolungma."

  ***