After descending for a while, I discover a path carved into the mountainside. It winds downward in sweep, meandering curves that approach and move away from the river, playing a game of tag.

  I follow it, stepping carefully through the damp earth and the morning mist that curls around my ankles.

  After another bend of the path, the valley opens into layers of green rice terraces bathed under the pink hue of floating petals that drift away carried by the breeze.

  “Cherry Blossom Valley… Huh?” I murmur. There are cherry trees everywhere on the slopes over and between terraces. Some are in full bloom, others already clad in green leaves the further you descend into the valley.

  I reach the valley’s edge, where the river is tamed and the wilderness gives way to civilization. Next to where I am, a sturdy stone gate funnels half of the river’s lifeblood into waiting channels. Sluices made out of thick bamboo, covered with algae and snails, split the water into narrow veins that weave through the terraces to feed all of them.

  I step closer, listening to the murmuring flow as it passes beneath a spillway. A series of wooden levers and weighted stones dictate how much water is drawn into each sector of fields below and how much remains in the river.

  I reach out, tracing the grain of the wood, feeling the steady pulse of the current beneath my fingertips. A pair of small serpents drift by, stalking something I can’t make out.

  Beyond the intake, the irrigation canals stretch like shimmering ribbons, catching the sunlight as they wind down the slopes. Water cascades gently between the levels, feeding each terrace before slipping into the next, funneled through hollow bamboo pipes as thick as my waist. The scent of wet earth rises with the warm morning air, mingling with the drifting sweetness of cherry blossoms.

  I wander closer to the terraces. Water glistens in their flooded paddies, reflecting the sky as the sun rises over the horizon. Pale petals flutter around me. They whisper between the trees before drifting down like plucked feathers that land on the water, forming pink blankets between the green rice stalks. Crabs and colored fishes swim beneath, looking at me as if waiting for me to feed them.

  I pause after another bend in the path. My gaze sweeps over a village nestled between a sea of paddies and a body of water, where the roaring river calms down into a lake. Thatched roofs peek behind groves of bamboo. Ribbons of smoke trail up into the air. A bell chimes somewhere, a deep, resonant note that lingers in the morning hush. Is it a sound of welcome or a warning? Just keeping the time?

  I flicker my invisibility rune on out of reflex and listen. The wind carries distant laughter to my ears. The bell chimes again. It comes from a building atop a hill, where the land meets the sky in a hush of wind and birdsong. A temple, maybe? It stands there, a silhouette of sloping eaves, stone, and bamboo shining under the morning sun, where the rice paddies meet the pine forest surrounding the valley. Red pillars frame an entrance shadowed by time, the lacquer dulled by years of rain and humidity. A path leads up from the lake towards it, bordered by rows of cherry trees.

  Out of curiosity, I take my compass out. A gasp escapes my lips. It points toward the temple. Huh?

  I’m tempted to go up there and uncover the secret immediately, but then I pause. It would be wise to observe the lay of the land first. I still have no idea why the compass points that way exactly, if the people here are hostile or welcoming. If a treasure is hidden or buried up there, it could be protected by someone powerful. Let’s observe the people of this village first.

  I release my invisibility rune and step forward, letting the valley embrace me. I follow the swaying cherry trees that border the path until I arrive at a park next to the lake, on the opposite side of the village.

  Bees and other insects hum through the air all around me, flying from blossom to blossom, collecting sweet nectar. The park stretches along the lake’s edge, a quiet grove of citrus trees bathed in the morning light. Their branches, heavy with fruit, sag beneath the weight of ripe oranges, grapefruit, and brilliant lemons, their thick leaves rustle softly in the breeze. The air is thick with their scent—bright and sharp, mingling with the cool breath of water lapping against the shore.

  I walk among the trees. My fingers graze the rough bark as I pass. The ground beneath my feet is a mosaic of fallen blossoms, patches of grass, and sun-dappled earth, slowly warming up where the light pours through the canopy, still cold and damp with lingering morning dew where the shadows pool beneath the densest branches.

  The lake shimmers behind a curtain of bamboo and reeds, its glassy surface broken only by the slow drift of lily pads, stalking herons, croaking frogs, and the occasional ripple of a fish peeking over the surface.

  I follow a path made of grey, moss-covered granite slaps that weave through the orchard, leading toward a group of benches made out of bamboo that overlook the water.

  I sit down and exhale, trying to disperse the weight of the unknown pressing against my ribs. I take the compass out again. It still points toward the temple up the hill, on the opposite side of the lake. I came here looking for answers. I hope I am strong enough to discover the truth, the treasure.

  People start to spill out of the village and disperse between the rice paddies like an army of ants. How many are there? A thousand, two thousand, maybe. Some go down to a dock next to the lake and enter small fisher boats also made of bamboo. I wonder how they manage to bend it that way. Maybe they use steam or bend it while the bamboo is still green and somewhat flexible. The boats drift over the lake like fallen leaves. Their slender frames rock gently as the fishermen move over them, preparing their nets. Long poles dip into the depths, leaving ripples spreading outwards in perfect rings. The lily pads sway in their wake, startling a few frogs. Some of them jump into the lake, cutting short their sunning session.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I peel a mandarin I got from the orchard and watch them in silence, listening to the murmur of voices carried by the breeze. A man stands at the bow of his boat, bare feet steady against the swaying planks as he casts his net in a slow, practiced arc. The woven mesh unfurls against the sky before sinking beneath the water’s surface. Next to him, a kid leans over the edge, peeking into the shallows, his reflection broken by the rippling wake of the fishes that manage to escape the net.

  Another child looks at me. I freeze for a moment, but then he dismisses me and starts tossing silver-scaled fish into a woven basket at his feet while launching the small ones back into the lake. He must have mistaken me for a local, or maybe other visitors pass by from time to time. Coming up from other villages further down the valley or through that tunnel from Minas Kalin.

  The boats drift past me like ghosts across the lake, leaving behind only silence. I feel like here, in this quiet place where citrus trees whisper to the lake, time slows down to match the rhythm of the water—unhurried, eternal.

  I blink. When did those boats get so far away?

  I bite into the almost-forgotten mandarin. A burst of sweetness floods my tongue, balanced by a teasing hint of lingering acidity and the fuzzing sensation of mana. I moan. How can a simple fruit be so tasty? The juices slip over my fingertips, sticky and golden.

  I stroll down to the shoreline to wash my hands. A pair of swans float closer. I watch them step out of the water, waving their tails and spraying drops over my feet. They look at me as if expecting me to feed them, too. I giggle and throw them a few gashes of mandarin. They peck at them but then just let them fall again. One of them snorts a quack and starts waddling back into the water. The other looks at me for the last time and then follows his friend.

  I sit down, feeling a bit disappointed, and dip my toes into the water.

  It’s still too soon to look for an inn and ask the locals about the temple. I should wait until they come back from their day’s work. Maybe I can pass the time, finally advancing my body tempering.

  I let myself sink into a meditative state. My surroundings drift out of focus and lose meaning, almost as if I took a step back from a beautiful painting. My heartbeats drum louder and deeper. Below it, I can feel my mana core pulsing each time the vortex rotates inside me. Each strike sends a ripple that swallows the silence, flooding my muscles and bones before retreating like an ebb and tide. It feels a bit different than the last time I did this. It’s more fluid. There is less resistance. The walls that impeded mana flow through my body have been slowly eroding over the weeks for some reason. Huh? I also seem to have more control over the flow than ever. It’s easy to guide and concentrate wherever I want.

  Let’s try tempering the skin again. I start guiding mana to the skin of my forearm this time because it feels easier to observe. I ramp it slowly, still remembering how I burned myself the last time I tried this.

  I facepalm. I should have tried to find a manual in Minas Kalin before fleeing to the mountains. Or maybe not. It may have been too risky.

  I let my momentary distraction fade away. There is no sense to dwell on the past. I need to concentrate.

  It seems to be going a bit better this time. The mana density in the skin of my forearm seems to have already reached three or four times the concentration of my last try, and it is just starting to tickle and warm up. Should I increase it? I frown. As far as I know, you are supposed to cram as much mana as you can into the part of the body you are trying to temper, but I feel a bit reluctant. Am I scared of burning myself again? No, no! This won’t do. I increase the intensity as far as I can before it becomes painful. It feels like I can ramp it up way more still. Do I need to barrel through the pain? I take a deep breath, preparing myself.

  “You are doing it wrong, girl,” grunts someone behind me in a deep voice.

  I whirl around and leap up into a standing position.

  A man is watching me, clad in a bright pink robe. The arms he has crossed over his chest are hidden inside long sleeves.

  “What?” I ask, feeling disoriented.

  “You are doing it wrong,” he strokes his white beard, the only indication that he may be older than he looks. His muscles are sleek and toned, and his skin is as smooth as that of a newborn. “Maybe I need to clarify. It’s not that your method is wrong per se. But it’s only useful in a mana-sparse region, where you need to cram every mote of mana you can get into you to advance. The best method to use here is way easier in a way.” Oh! I’m an idiot. Or maybe not, but I lack education. I can feel my cheeks turn red in embarrassment. The chasm between social classes has never felt so vast. “Well, calling it tempering method is a stretch even. There isn’t any need for a specific tempering method here. The mana density in these mountains is high enough that your body tempers itself every time you strain and push it over your physical and mental limits.” I blink. What? Talk about privilege. They temper themselves here just by doing exercise? “You can accelerate the process by softly flooding yourself with mana while you recuperate. Try it out.”

  I flinch. I have given away that I’m not from anywhere close just by how I try to cultivate. I want to throw myself off one of the cliffs surrounding the valley in embarrassment. I thought I was good at blending in.

  I look at the man suspiciously. Why is he helping me? What is his angle? People don’t give out advice for free. There is also something strange happening. I can’t feel the man at all. There is no presence, no mana leaking from him. He feels almost like a mortal. This makes absolutely no sense in this region where everyone I have seen so far is a mage of some grade, even children. A shiver travels down my spine. That is way scarier than if he felt like a strong mage. Could this be the old man those guards were scared of? He doesn’t look old, but it is hard to judge his age. There is a certain gravitas to him. It feels like he is part of this valley. A witness to the passage of time that has been here for ages.

  “How should I do it?” I ask. At least for now, he seems friendly. Helpful, even. I probably should try to do as he says until he loses interest in me and try not to offend him.

  “Just let it flow like you did when you started,” he says. How long has he been observing me? “Circulate your mana and let it flood every cell of your body. Gently.”

  I follow his instructions, letting the ebb and flow embrace me, dissolving all the lingering tensions from my hectic cross over the mountains. I almost moan in pleasure.

  The man chuckles. “It’s easy, isn’t it?” He paces around the benches before sitting down and peeling an orange. His gaze never leaves me. I almost can feel it studying me, piercing me, revealing all my secrets. Not that there are many left. I feel exposed. “You are nearly done with your tempering, anyway. You are at more or less 70% to the next level. How long have you been in this region?”

  I gasp. “How do you know that I’m not from here?”

  He chuckles again. “Well, it’s easy to deduce. You are way too old to still be in the body acclimatization stage if you were born and raised here. Most children that are born here complete it when they are about twelve years old, just from the exposure.”

  “The what stage?”

  “The body acclimatization stage, or body tempering stage.” He looks at me like searching for a reaction. “No? Not from the East or Peruvian. Strange, you look like one of them.” I suppress another shiver. This man is dangerous. “You may know it like the bronze stage, the copper stage, or quartz, or whatever else they call it these days to sound fancy.” He takes a step toward the lake, looking at the passage of the swans. “It’s all the same, anyways, the second stage of advancement.” A boat drifts past. All the fishers bow deeply when they see the white-haired man by my side. “There is no time to lose. We need to get you tested.”

  Wait. We need to what?

  The man snaps his fingers, and the valley winks out.