The days that followed blurred into a grueling, monotonous rhythm. Lian became a fixture in the village, a silent, hulking beast of burden. His existence was stripped down to the most basic tasks. At dawn, he would be roused by Finn, the guard, and tasked with hauling massive buckets of water from the stream, a chore that took two men to do, but which he accomplished with ease. Then came the wood. He was sent to the timberline with a crude metal axe, and he would spend hours felling trees, not with the efficient, Qi-infused power he possessed, but with the slow, repetitive swing of mortal muscle. He learned to mimic the grunts of exertion from the other woodcutters, to wipe sweat from his brow even when he felt no fatigue.
He was a ghost in plain sight. The villagers grew accustomed to his presence. The initial fear subsided into a kind of casual disregard. They saw him as a tool, a simple-minded giant, useful but ultimately unimportant. The children, after a few failed attempts to get a reaction from the "big, quiet man," eventually lost interest and left him alone. This invisibility was his greatest shield.
While his body performed the mindless labor, his mind was a voracious predator, feasting on every scrap of information. His primary target became the village blacksmith, a burly man named Borin with arms as thick as small tree trunks and a beard perpetually singed at the edges. Lian was often tasked with hauling raw, unprocessed iron ore to the forge, heavy black rocks that he could have crushed to powder in his fist. Instead, he would groan and heave, playing his part, just to earn a few more moments near the forge's fire.
Here, he witnessed a form of alchemy that was both baffling and profound. Borin would heat the dead, black rock until it glowed with the heart of a star. Then, with his hammer, he would beat the weakness out of it, folding and shaping it, his movements a dance of sweat, fire, and steel. He was transforming the bones of the earth into something new, something with a purpose and a sharp edge. Lian watched the process with an intensity that would have alarmed anyone who bothered to truly look at him. He was not watching a man work; he was memorizing a principle of transformation, a crude but effective form of refinement. He realized that this, too, was a form of cultivation, a way of imposing one's will upon the raw materials of the world.
Language came to him in fragments. He never asked questions. He simply listened. He listened to the women gossiping as they washed clothes by the stream, their words flowing like the water itself. He listened to the men arguing over a game of chance at night, their speech sharp and clipped. He listened to Elder Maeve telling stories to the children, her voice weaving simple words into tapestries of meaning. He was like a child learning to speak, absorbing sounds, patterns, and context.
One day, while stacking firewood near the central fire, he overheard two men arguing. "The harvest was poor this year," one grumbled. "If we don't get that trade caravan from the south, we'll be eating bark by winter's end." "Blame the Elder," the other spat. "She's too cautious. Wasting good men guarding that 'sacred grove' on the eastern ridge when we need them hunting."
Lian's movements did not falter, but his mind seized upon the words. Trade caravan. Sacred grove. These were new concepts, new potential sources of information or resources. His mental map of this tiny world expanded.
His control over the beast of his hatred was tested daily. The close proximity, the smells, the pointless noise—it was a constant irritant, a file scraping against his soul. There were moments when a child would throw a stone at him to see if he would react, or a man, emboldened by drink, would shove him in passing. In those moments, the serpent of his power would stir, his Killing Intent threatening to leak from his pores. He would feel the urge to turn the offender into a red mist, to silence the entire, grating ant hill forever. But then the image of the star-filled ocean would appear in his mind's eye. This village was a boat. A crude, foul-smelling, and noisy boat, but a boat nonetheless. And he would not sink it until it had carried him closer to his shore.
In all his observations, only one thing truly puzzled him: Elder Maeve. While the other villagers were like open books, their life force (Qi) thin and unremarkable, the Elder was different. When he was near her, his Primal Sense detected something more. It was faint, like the last ember of a dying fire, almost completely obscured by the wrinkles of age. But it was there. A flicker of trained, disciplined energy. A resonance that spoke of a past that did not belong in this simple village. She was more than she seemed, and he filed that knowledge away, marking her as a potential threat, and a far more valuable resource, than any other.
His nights were his own. When the snores of the other men filled the storage hut, Lian would become a shadow. He would slip out, silent as a hunting cat, and make his way to a secluded spot deep in the woods, far from the village's prying eyes. Here, under the cold light of the moon, he would finally allow himself to cultivate.
He couldn't risk the explosive power of his Body Cultivation, but he could refine his Gongfa. He would sit and practice the "Devouring Skin" technique, but with a newfound control. He drew in the Qi of the world not as a flood, but as a gentle mist, careful not to create any noticeable disturbance in the surrounding energy. He was starving, but he could only allow himself the smallest sips of power, lest he draw unwanted attention. It was a torturous discipline, but it was necessary. During these secret sessions, he would also practice his will, forcing the chaotic mix of energy in his Dantian—the green of the Heartwood, the blue of the Lightning—to obey, to spin in a controlled, silent vortex.
He was a god in chains, a king in beggar's robes. But with every passing day, his understanding grew, his control sharpened, and the key he was forging to unlock the cosmos became just a little more perfect.