Blossoming Path-250. Closed Eyes in a Forest

Blossoming Path-250. Closed Eyes in a Forest

The morning smelled of ash and plum wine.
Ren Zhi’s fingers hovered lightly over the table before brushing against a bottle. Half-full, cool to the touch, the rim still faintly stained with the sharp tang of snake venom and ginseng. He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a chuckle, if not for the quiet that came after.
'Had it been the alcohol that loosened my tongue last night?'
Or was it something else?
He stood still in the dim room above the Soaring Swallow Inn, the dawn light filtering through the paper windows, warming his cheeks but not quite reaching the hollowness behind his eyes. There was no need for sight. There hadn’t been for years. The world spoke to him in sound, in scent, in vibration and intuition. But lately it whispered in something else. A thread he hadn’t touched in decades.
Connection.
Crescent Bay had offered him plenty of companionship. Shared meals. Shallow laughter. Hollow praise. But here in Gentle Wind Village, he found something else.
He lifted the bottle to his nose. Plum. A note of bitterness beneath the sweetness. Kai’s brew.
He supposed he should have been more cautious, keeping that part of himself hidden.
Maybe it was the drink.
Or maybe, for the first time in so long, he’d felt seen.
Ren Zhi set the bottle down gently and reached for his cane, fingers brushing over the grooves carved into the handle. Wang Jun’s work; reinforced at the base with ironwood, wrapped at the top with padded cloth. Thoughtful, practical. Like everything the boy did.
He moved slowly, careful not to disturb the floorboards. He could already hear Lan-Yin’s mother moving about the kitchen, her steps familiar, accompanied by the soft clatter of pans and the occasional barked laugh from the cooks. As he descended the stairs, the scent of fragrant broth hit his nose; fresh and golden. Someone whispered his name in passing. Another offered a polite “Good morning, Senior.”
He replied with a nod, as he always did.
They treated him with respect.
Not because they knew who he was—but because they did that for everyone.
Lan-Yin always announced her steps near him, not out of pity, but so they wouldn’t collide. Wang Jun reinforced his cane without fanfare, as though it were obvious. Even Xiao Bao, mischievous and mouthy, guided his arm to the bench without ever making a show of it.
It was consideration.
And Kai… Kai was the heart of it all.
He gave as much as he had, and then more. And the village, in turn, reflected him. Ren Zhi could feel it in the way people spoke. How they moved. How they looked out for one another.
He stepped out into the open square, tapping lightly with his cane. The sun hadn’t yet reached its peak, but warmth had already begun to creep into the stones. Children’s laughter echoed across the square.
“Grandpa Zhi! Will you finish the story about the Windborn General today?”
“Did he really kill a demon with a feather?!”
Ren Zhi smiled, a faint crease at the edge of his lips. “Later,” he said, voice dry but not unkind. “The general needs time to sharpen his feathers.”
A collective groan went up, but they scattered with giggles, returning to whatever game they’d been inventing before his arrival.
He tapped onward, steps steady, mind drifting. Past the well. Past the weaving stall with its spinning chimes. Past the smithy where the clang of metal rang true and familiar.
Until at last, he reached it.
The greenhouse. The one by the heart of the village.
He stood before the door, hand resting lightly against the frame.
Ren Zhi bowed his head slightly, then slid the door open with deliberate care.
Moist. Lush. Saturated with essence. The fragrance of loam and dew-soaked leaves wrapped around him, tinged with something faintly sweet and sharp. The world here was thicker somehow, like the air had learned to grow roots.
He tapped his way forward with light movements, cane barely grazing the path. And then he stopped, just shy of the central bed of soil, where the muse of his thoughts knelt in the grass.
Kai moved with quiet intent, the sound of rustling foliage guiding Ren Zhi’s senses like the rhythm of a song. Hands brushing over leaves. Clipping stems. Adjusting stakes. He was speaking, though not aloud.
“Good morning,” Kai said softly, not looking up.
Ren Zhi inclined his head. “Mm. So it is.”
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A pause stretched between them. Then:
“How’s Tianyi?”
Kai exhaled, a long breath through his nose.
“Recovering from a nasty hangover,” he muttered. “And… she asked me to apologize on her behalf. For her antics last night. Although she was mentioning some nonsense about shattering her own dantian to make up for the disgrace. You taught her that, didn't you?”
Ren Zhi let out a faint scoff, more amused than dismissive. “i didn't
tell
her. She just happens to listen well whenever I'm telling stories.”
Kai chuckled, quiet and sheepish. The older man turned his attention to the room, letting his senses unfurl.
And he felt it.
Wood-element qi packed so densely it might’ve cracked stone if left unshaped. It pressed at his skin like steam, warm and alive, yet held in check by the boy just a few paces away. Contained not by force, but by harmony.
'How peculiar.'
These were not ordinary spiritual herbs.
They weren’t even hybrids anymore.
They were his.
Kai’s.
Each one carried the boy’s intent, like an imprint.
Ren Zhi turned his face toward the sound of Kai’s movements, though his eyes saw nothing.
There was something about this boy.
Ren Zhi knew enough to trust his instincts. In his youth, that gut feeling had saved him more times than luck or swordsmanship ever had. And right now, it whispered a truth too persistent to ignore.
Not just talent. Not just effort. No, he had seen plenty of hard workers in his day, and more than his share of prodigies. But...
'He was nineteen.'
Essence Awakening at nineteen; barely a year since he first began walking the path of cultivation. That was the kind of thing one might read in embellished scrolls or hear whispered at the margins of tournaments. Something even hard to believe in the stories he wrote.
And yet.
Shan Ming knew. Ren Zhi could feel it in the way the former cultivator sometimes went quiet when discussing the boy, as though hiding a kernel of truth he wasn’t ready to share.
Had the heavens blessed this child?
Was he a vessel? A weapon? A seed planted by a long-forgotten force?
Or just a boy, too stubborn to know where his limits should’ve been?
Because at least one thing was certain: the boy’s growth hadn’t occurred in isolation.
It began around the same time the Heavenly Interface appeared.
A system of power, authority, and progression that no sect, scholar, or sovereign had foreseen. One that spread like wildfire through Tranquil Breeze Province, awakening not just cultivators, but farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters. Oordinary folk who now walked paths once reserved for the elite.
And here, at the heart of it all... was Kai.
Perhaps he wasn't a benefactor of the Interface.
'Perhaps a catalyst.'
Because too many coincidences had begun to pile atop one another. The growing qi density of this village. The speed of its development. The sudden influx of demonic cultivators, bandits, spirit beasts, and even that mad elder from the fractured Silent Moon Sect; all drawn to this unremarkable speck on the map like moths to a flame.
Too frequent. Too calculated.
This village had become something.
Someone
had made it so.
And as Ren Zhi listened to Kai's soft footsteps tending to the greenhouse, to the rustle of leaves responding to his presence, he could feel it again; that pressure, that barely-contained energy of a place on the verge of transformation. Something about this boy was attracting more than just wayward spirits.
'Trouble would come again.'
He was sure of it.
He knew, better than most, that power never stayed hidden for long; the world had a way of dragging it into the light, whether one wished it or not.
His fingers curled lightly around the head of his cane.
They trembled.
Just slightly.
He stilled them with a breath.
Ren Zhi had long since laid down his sword. Hidden his strength behind the persona of a blind storyteller.
But the scent of loam and spirit herbs. The pressure of blooming potential in the air. The boy’s presence, quiet and relentless, stirred something he’d hoped to forget.
The feeling of standing in the presence of a tree not yet sprouted; one that, if it grew true, might one day overshadow the heavens.
He tilted his head, voice even. “Your dao is exceptional.”
That finally made Kai look up. “How so?”
Ren Zhi didn’t answer right away. He extended his awareness again, letting the information wash over him.
“Cultivators at higher stages often affect the world around them,” Ren Zhi said at last. “They summon wind. Bring fire. Some can will storms into being with enough force."
He let that statement linger in the air. Then, without shifting his stance or raising his voice, he breathed out slowly.
The greenhouse should have remained still; closed space, no openings, no breeze. But a current stirred.
It began as the faintest sigh, like breath across glass, then grew into a gentle gust that rustled the herbs and leaves around them. Vines swayed. Petals trembled.
Kai’s gaze snapped up.
The wind circled once, then stilled, gone as quickly as it came.
Ren Zhi remained motionless. His cane hadn’t shifted. His hands never moved.
“But you…” he continued, voice soft, steady. “You do something different.”
Kai blinked, clearly listening.
“You nourish,” Ren Zhi continued. “Your presence alone makes life take root. That’s what makes it remarkable.”
Kai looked down, as if unsure what to do with the compliment.
Especially for one who had just stepped into Essence Awakening, such a passive effect of one’s dao… was deeply unusual.
Ren Zhi tilted his head slightly, almost as if about to ask the question that hovered on the edge of his thoughts. The origin of this gift. The shape of the boy’s fate. It was hard not to be curious.
But he stopped.
Kai was uneasy. Not outwardly, not in voice or posture; but Ren Zhi could feel it. A subtle shift in his breathing. The slight hesitation in his pruning. The ripple in the harmony of the greenhouse, so faint that only someone with enhanced senses would have noticed.
He let the moment pass.
Some truths revealed themselves in time. Forcing them open only broke the shell before the hatchling had grown wings. He would respect Kai's privacy as the boy did for him.
So instead, he breathed in the fragrance of soil and spirit herbs, letting the silence settle like dew.
“You have a bright future,” he said, voice low and certain. “If you continue on this path, keep your wits about you, and listen to your elders—especially me—you’ll become one of the strongest men not just in this province, but in the mainland itself.”
That earned a reaction.
He waited, fully expecting the boy to stammer, blush, or slip into that ridiculous ‘arrogant young master’ persona he sometimes used when flustered. A flamboyant declaration, maybe. Something like:
“Naturally! The heavens tremble at the mere mention of my name!”
But Kai didn’t smile.
Didn’t preen.
Didn’t even look up right away.
He gently pressed a wooden stake deeper into the soil beside a drooping vine, wiped his fingers on his sleeve, and spoke with the quiet weight of someone who had thought this over far too often.
“I don’t want to be the strongest.”
Ren Zhi’s brows lifted slightly.
“I just want to be strong enough to protect the people I care about,” Kai continued, voice calm. “And… if whatever made me stronger can help nourish the ones around me too.”
The silence that followed was different.
Ren Zhi let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
For the first time in years, not as a warrior, not as a storyteller, not even as a man who’d once crossed blades with legends.
But as a teacher, his heart stirred.
“…Then you may already be further than most who seek strength for its own sake,” he said quietly.
Kai let the words hang in the air for a moment longer. But within a moment, his demeanor shifted.
“Well, of course,” Kai declared, suddenly boisterous. “For I am none other than Kai Liu! Slayer of beasts, collector of ancient treasures and beautiful women from every province!”
Ren Zhi snorted before Kai could continue.
The boy pressed on, undeterred. “I shall travel far and wide, restoring lost gardens and dismantling corrupt sects with my unreasonably good looks and unrivaled charisma. I’ll leave behind trails of broken hearts and rejuvenated soils alike! A proper chivalrous warrior, spreading treasures wherever I go—”
“Start by trying to court a single girl in this village,” Ren Zhi cut in dryly.
Kai sputtered. “There aren’t any girls my age in the village! Except Lan-Yin, but she's betrothed and a treasured friend!”
“There are plenty among the refugees.”
The boy paused.
“It's not right to ask someone in a disadvantaged position.”
“Coward."
Kai’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?!”
Ren Zhi leaned on his cane, adopting the kind of smug stillness that only a blind man could make look wise. “You heard me. All that talk about chivalry and spreading your treasures, and here you are, tripping over a simple conversation to court a girl.”
“It’s not that simple!” Kai snapped, then grimaced. “It’s just… complicated, okay?”
“Mm,” Ren Zhi murmured. “You speak of phoenixes but flee from chickens. How ironic.”
Kai opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, flailing for a comeback that didn’t exist. In the end, he threw his hands in the air, defeated.
Ren Zhi chuckled quietly to himself, the sound rolling like wind through hollow bamboo.
The petty squabble drifted into comfortable silence again.
He tilted his face toward Kai, though his eyes saw only darkness. He knew the boy by sound, by scent, by the slight scrape of his fingernails against bark, the way he exhaled when he was thinking too hard.
He knew the robe he wore; maroon, dyed by his own hand. He knew from others that his hair was long, straight, and black with a slight wave at the ends.
But he didn’t know the curve of his smile. The way his eyes looked when he was determined, or gentle, or stubborn beyond reason.
He didn’t know the shape of the boy’s face.
And in that moment, Ren Zhi wished that he hadn’t been forced to blind himself.
Just once, he wished he could see the boy he was mentoring.
Because whatever face Kai wore… he was certain it was a kind one.

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250. Closed Eyes in a Forest