Cultivation starts with picking up attributes-Chapter 131: Ch-: Training Disaster

Morning arrived quietly in the orchard.

A silver mist clung to the grass as Tian Shen moved through the stillness, his steps soft, deliberate.

He wasn’t alone—early risers were already beginning their day—but he might as well have been.

The orchard had a way of holding silence, like an old friend offering company without need for words.

He stopped by the Quiet Pavilion, newly built but already weathered by wind and story.

Someone had left a clay figurine on the threshold—a child’s attempt at sculpting Drowsy, complete with lopsided paws and button eyes. Tian Shen bent and picked it up, turning it in his hand.

He smiled.

"Someone has a future in espionage," came Ji Luan’s voice from a nearby bench. "I found another one yesterday. This time shaped like you, but with horns."

Tian Shen didn’t turn.

"Some truths hide in jest."

Ji Luan chuckled, stretched.

"Some jests should stay hidden."

They sat in companionable silence, watching as the mist burned off.

Below the hill, the main path unfurled like a ribbon, curving through wildflower fields and down into the valley. It was the path that their emissaries had taken days ago.

"Any word yet?"

Ji Luan finally asked.

"Not yet. But I’m not worried."

"Hm. Then I’ll worry twice as hard, just to balance it out."

Tian Shen stood, brushing off his sleeves.

"You’re welcome to it."

...

Training resumed that morning under a wide sky.

It wasn’t just drills and sparring anymore. The Scout Division’s curriculum had changed. Yes, blades were still sharpened, and footwork honed.

But now there were other sessions: empathy exercises, diplomatic simulations, fieldcraft in dialogue as well as terrain.

Lan taught a class on dream interpretation, drawn from her time in the Dungeon.

Feng Yin led guided meditations using music and breath, coaxing emotional residue from tense bodies.

Ji Luan—despite protest—was assigned to teach battlefield improvisation.

Her first session ended with three students drenched in soup and one goat mysteriously tethered to the sparring post.

"I maintain," she said to Elder Su, "that this was a successful demonstration of real-world unpredictability."

She merely raised an eyebrow and wrote something in her ledger.

...

That afternoon, Little Mei arrived with a tray of buns shaped like plum blossoms and news from the valley.

"There’s talk of a delegation from the Southern Peaks."

She said between bites.

"Healers and lorekeepers. They want to visit. Learn."

Tian Shen nodded.

"Are they sending an official request?"

"Not yet. But a hawk flew over this morning. No message, just a feather tied with red string. You know what that means."

"Old goats," Tian Shen murmured. "They’re testing the water."

"Or warning us," Feng Yin said from the doorway. She stepped into the courtyard, arms folded. "The last time red string was used, it preceded a purge."

"We’re not what we were," Tian Shen said. "And neither are they. We listen. We prepare. But we don’t assume."

Feng Yin nodded reluctantly. "Still, I’ll keep my blades close."

"You always do."

...

That evening, Tian Shen walked the orchard paths alone.

He passed the mirror garden, where wind chimes sang their soft, discordant lullabies. He passed the training field, where Drowsy lay belly-up, snoring with abandon.

He passed the Quiet Pavilion, where lanterns now hung in sets of four—symbolizing witness, listening, breath, and return.

He stopped by...

This was where he had first arrived, half-starved, years ago. Where Elder Su had silently offered him a place to stay.

He knelt, touched the stones.

They were cool and damp, alive with moss.

He whispered a name.

No one heard.

But the orchard...

...

That night, the scouts gathered for the Moonwatch, a tradition resurrected from their earliest days.

They sat in a wide circle near the top of the ridge, where the stars felt close enough to brush with a fingertip.

Everyone took turns telling a story.

Not about war or conquest.

But about small moments:

Feng Yin spoke of a girl who had forgotten how to sing until the wind reminded her.

Ji Luan recounted a tale of mistaken identity, a goose, and an irate merchant in the Floating Market.

Lan shared a dream where the moon turned into a fish and swam through the clouds, and when it returned, it had new songs written on its scales.

Even Elder Su spoke—rarely, and simply. Of a friend she had once had, long lost. Of how she never found their grave, but planted orchids every spring just in case.

When it was Tian Shen’s turn, he hesitated.

Then he said:

"I had a teacher once. He said the hardest thing a blade can do is remain sheathed. Because that takes trust."

He looked around the circle.

"I think I finally understand what he meant."

No one applauded.

But everyone understood.

...

Two days later, the emissary party returned.

They were bruised, dusty, and laughing.

Feng Yin carried a new tattoo—an emblem of peace from the borderland town. Lan had a journal filled with fragments of songs the villagers had remembered in their dreams.

Ji Luan wore a slightly scorched cloak and insisted it was due to a ceremonial bonfire, not his cooking.

Drowsy had acquired a wide-brimmed hat and refused to take it off.

Their report was clear: no imminent threat. No dark magic. Just Old, haunting places with stories left unfinished. The scouts had listened. Had sung lullabies. Had mapped the silence.

And the people had begun to heal.

...

In the days that followed, more visitors came.

Some curious.

Some cautious.

Some desperate.

The Scout Division met them all with the same quiet grace.

They built new rooms in the Quiet Pavilion. Expanded the orchard. Carved stone paths where before there was only earth.

Tian Shen walked these paths daily. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

He spoke less now.

But when he did, others listened.

Not because of command.

Because of trust.

...

One morning, Little Mei found him watching the sunrise with the scroll open in his lap.

"It’s grown again?"

She asked, sitting beside him.

He nodded.

"But this time, there are names I don’t recognize at all. Entire families. A clan from the East who claim they dreamed of a tree that whispered welcome."

Little Mei leaned her head on his shoulder.

"You built something real."

"We all did."

She smiled. "Even Ji Luan?"

"Especially Ji Luan."

He closed the scroll.

In the distance, the first notes of morning bells drifted over the orchard. Another day was beginning. Another chance to choose.

Tian Shen stood.

This time, he didn’t look to the horizon.

He looked within.

And found peace.

...

The orchard bloomed in full that season.

Plum trees heavy with fruit.

Lanterns aglow with the voices of those who came and stayed.

The world outside continued to turn, loud and restless.

But here—here, something different was growing.

Not a fortress.

A home.

And from it, a new kind of strength would rise.

...

Spring rain came unannounced one evening.

It wasn’t the kind that howled or lashed—it drifted down like breath, steady and silver, weaving through the trees.

Scouts moved through the drizzle like ghosts, finishing chores or carrying supplies beneath their cloaks.

In the orchard, petals curled inward to catch the droplets, and the lanterns dimmed just slightly, as if bowing to the change in rhythm.

Tian Shen sat beneath the Plum Sentinel, the oldest tree in the orchard. Its trunk was twisted with age, its roots thick and exposed, like the knuckles of an ancient hand still reaching into the earth.

He wasn’t meditating or reading. Just sitting. Breathing.

A soft shuffle of boots drew near, and he glanced up.

Feng Yin approached, holding an umbrella shaped like a dragonfly wing.

"No scrolls today?"

She asked, settling beside him.

"No dreams," he replied. "Only rain."

They watched in silence as water collected in small hollows around them.

The orchard was whispering tonight—not warnings, not omens. Just presence. A living hush.

Feng Yin exhaled.

"There’s talk of movement in the northern borderlands. Not hostile. Not yet. But... unfamiliar."

Tian Shen nodded.

"Then we watch. Like we always do."

She tilted her head.

"And if watching isn’t enough?"

"Then we listen harder."

This deserved a faint chuckle.

"You always did answer like a poet."

"And you always hear like a warrior."

Another silence stretched, not awkward—ripe, like fruit not yet picked.

Then Tian Shen said with the tone of an old monk

"When the orchard blooms like this... it’s hard to believe how much we lost."

"But we didn’t lose everything," Feng Yin murmured. "You’re still here. We’re still here. That counts."

Rain ticked against the leaves above them, each drop a quiet affirmation.

In the far pavilion, Ji Luan could be heard yelling about someone turning her soup into a philosophy lesson.

Laughter followed. Lanterns swayed. Drowsy clucked once, then flopped over.

Tian Shen smiled faintly.

Yes, this was a different kind of strength, with a different sense of Responsibility.

The kind born from choosing to stay.

To heal. To grow.

Even in the rain. Even in the storm.