Chapter 11: The Fisherman's Proposition
The rush of the river was a constant, thrumming presence, a sound so pervasive it felt like the mountain's own pulse. Damish stood at the tree line, the encounter with the pandas already feeling like a prelude to this, the main event. The figure on the rock was a study in absolute stillness, so perfectly integrated with the environment that he seemed more a feature of the landscape than a man.
Damish's approach was hesitant, his footsteps careful on the damp, rocky bank. He expected the man to startle, to turn at the sound of a stranger's approach. But there was nothing. No shift in posture, no twitch of the shoulder. The only movement was the gentle sway of the river current around his rock and the occasional flutter of his simple, straw rain cloak in the breeze.
It was as if the man hadn't heard him. Or, more disconcertingly, as if he had, and simply did not care.
Damish moved closer, until he was standing a respectful ten paces behind the fisherman. He could see the details now—the weathered texture of the hat, the gnarled, strong hands that held the fishing rod with a relaxed yet unbreakable grip. The air around the man was cool and carried the clean scent of water and wet stone.
And then, a subtle change. The man's head tilted a fraction of an inch, not enough to look back, but enough to acknowledge a presence. He had known Damish was there all along. His continued silence was a message in itself: he would not be the first to speak.
So Damish waited. He watched the float bob on the water's surface, riding the currents with a natural ease. He matched his breathing to the rhythm of the scene, the Shān Xī technique activating almost on its own, settling his nerves and heightening his senses. The world narrowed to the river, the rock, and the silent fisherman.
After what felt an eternity, the float dipped sharply. It was not a violent jerk, but a decisive pull. The old man's hands, which had been utterly relaxed, moved with a speed that was a blur. There was no frantic reeling, no struggle. It was a single, fluid motion—a slight twitch of the wrist to set the hook, then a smooth, powerful pull that brought the fish arcing out of the water. It was a beautiful, silvery trout, its scales flashing in the dappled forest light.
The fish landed on the rock with a soft thud, gasping. The old man placed the rod down, his movements economical and devoid of wasted effort. He reached into a small basket at his side, retrieved a short, blunt club, and with a motion so swift and merciful it was over before Damish could process it, he ended the fish's life. He placed it gently into the basket with the others, wiped his hands on a cloth, and then, and only then, did he turn fully to face Damish.
The face that was revealed was ancient, carved by time and the elements into a mask of leathery wrinkles. But it was the eyes that commanded attention. They were a clear, piercing grey, like chips of glacial ice, and they held an impossible depth. They did not just look at Damish; they seemed to see through him, stripping away the layers of his healed body, his newly acquired knowledge, his very sense of self, with a single, unnerving glance.
A long moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the river's song. The old man's expression was unreadable.
"Young man," he said finally. His voice was not the mellifluous baritone of Headmaster Ren, but a dry, raspy sound, like stones grinding together under water. It was a voice used to silence. "Don't you think, with your mortal body, coming to this forest… isn't it a death wish?"
The words were blunt, almost rude, but delivered with a flat, matter-of-factness that stripped them of malice. They were simply an observation. And they were accurate. Damish knew from his reading that the deeper parts of the Kunlun forests were home to spirit beasts and natural dangers that would make short work of an ordinary man. His lack of cultivated energy, his "mortal body," would be a glaring beacon of vulnerability.
But the old man had seen more. Much more. As his preternatural gaze had swept over Damish, it had taken in everything. It had seen the complete absence of a cultivated core, the dormant energy pathways of a true outsider. But it had also seen something else, something that had caused a seismic shift within the old man's own immense, placid consciousness—a shift he masterfully concealed behind his weathered face.
He had seen the Shān Xī technique breathing within Damish. Not just being practiced, but living there, woven into the very fabric of his being. And it was not the technique as he knew it. The rhythm was different. Deeper. More… primordial. It was a resonance, not a cultivation. The potential he saw unspooling from this young man was not a straight road to power; it was a bottomless well. If this boy was nurtured, if that unique rhythm was allowed to mature over twenty years, the old man knew with utter certainty that the name "Damish" would be etched into the annals of history with a potency that would dwarf his own legendary status. He was number one in the current world; but this boy could redefine what number one meant.
Damish, unaware of the cataclysm of thought he had just triggered in the ancient figure, simply bowed his head slightly. "I was told the inner valley was safe, Senior," he replied, his voice calm. He did not justify himself further.
The old man's icy eyes glinted with a hint of something—amusement, perhaps, or interest. "Senior?" he rasped. "Are you from the sect, then?"
"No," Damish answered truthfully. "But I am a guest here. Are you from the sect, Senior?"
A dry, rattling sound that might have been a laugh escaped the old man's lips. "No. Not from any sect." He gestured vaguely with a gnarled hand at the river, the forest, the mountain. "But I can come here freely. Old Man Ren and I were good friends, back when the world was younger. He gave me this place as a gift. A quiet corner to fish. To think. Here, I can do anything without the… interference… of sect disciples."
He said the word "interference" with a mild distaste, making it clear what he thought of the structured, noisy striving of the academy.
He fell silent again, his piercing gaze fixed on Damish, weighing him. The offer, when it came, was delivered not with grandeur, but with the same flat, factual tone as his previous observations.
"Hey, young man," he said, as if commenting on the weather. "Do you want to be my disciple?"
Damish's composure, which had held through the strange and intense encounter, finally cracked. His eyes widened a fraction. His breath hitched.
The old man continued, his voice a low rasp. "I can help you reach the summit."
The words hung in the misty air between them, simple, direct, and utterly earth-shattering. It was not a request. It was not a plea. It was a statement of impossible fact, delivered by a man who looked like he could make the mountain itself move if he wished it.
The river rushed on, indifferent to the monumental question that had just been posed. The old man waited, his glacial eyes seeing every flicker of shock, confusion, and dawning realization that passed across Damish's face.