The sun rose pale and slow, hidden behind thin clouds like a bashful child.
Qinghe's morning began as usual — clay pots steaming, pigs grunting in the pens, chickens flapping in the yard. Farmers gathered near the well, trading gossip between scoops of water.
It was in this ordinary moment that a whisper was passed.
"Zhao Yi's goat didn't come back last night."
"Again? Didn't his neighbor lose a calf last week?"
"Mm. They say it was the foxes, but… foxes don't leave hoofprints, do they?"
The farmer stirred his bucket with the handle of his hoe.
"Hoofprints?"
"Too big for a goat. Too deep. One step nearly cracked the stone by the gate."
"Bah, drunk again. Zhao Yi's had mushrooms in his tea since the solstice."
The others laughed, the kind of laughter used to push fear away.
Not deny it.
---
Yun Long didn't hear these whispers.
He was busy crouching near the eastern field, learning how to dig sweet roots from Old Yun. His hands were covered in earth. His brow glistened from effort. But he smiled anyway, content just to be useful.
Madam Su brought them water in a woven bottle and watched the two work side by side.
"Our boy's getting strong," she said lovingly.
Old Yun grunted as he yanked a stubborn root. "He's seven. By nine, he'll be able to pull these without help."
Yun Long perked up. "I will!"
They laughed.
---
Later that afternoon, he practiced the Qi Standing Stance again — the same one from the the scroll, now taught in pairs.
A group of children gathered behind the temple again, each mimicking the instructor's hand positions.
"Straight back. Relax the chest. Let your breath settle like still water," the instructor muttered. He was an old man with a crooked cane and one good eye — not a cultivator, but someone who had read enough scrolls to fake it for the town's sake.
Yun Long took it seriously.
He stood quietly.
Breathed evenly.
Listened.
And as his breath settled… the stone warmed again.
Not hot. Not powerful.
Just a tiny pulse — as if nodding gently, hidden within his pouch.
---
This time, Yun Long noticed.
He opened his eyes, confused, and pressed his hand to his chest where the pouch lay.
The warmth stopped.
He blinked and shut his eyes again.
When the session ended, he didn't say a word. But he clutched the pouch a little tighter on his walk home.
---
That evening, as villagers gathered in the square for the usual lantern-light rest, someone mentioned it again:
"My old donkey didn't come back today."
"Again?" came a muttered reply.
A young man from the far hill spoke next.
"I saw something strange two nights back. Just a flicker in the trees. Big. Moved like it weighed tons."
Old Yun, standing nearby, frowned.
He glanced toward the mountains.
Toward the trees past the rice fields.
Toward the path no one had used since the blizzard three winters ago.
---
Yun Long lay on his mat later, staring at the ceiling.
His pouch was tucked beneath his pillow again.
He wasn't worried.
Just… staring.
It wasn't like him to stare before sleeping.
But tonight, he did.
---
Far away — beyond where Qinghe's lamps reached — something breathed, low and deep.
And far beneath the mountains, something shifted in its sleep.
The wind did not howl.
The sky did not darken.
The world did not break.
But a hoofprint remained outside a barn door the next morning — wide, sunken, and smoldering faintly, like a coal pressed into earth.
No one could explain it.
So they said nothing.
And returned to work.
---