Cultivation begins with the simplest movements—a child's legs kicking rhythmically against bed and ground, day after day without pause. As years pass, the blade becomes an extension of the self, each slash and cut weaving patterns of strength and mastery. Eventually, cultivation transforms into something deeper: the eternal dance of yin and yang, nights devoted to harmonizing opposing forces, then another night, and another. I am Xu Ming, and the sect stipends and noble connections mean nothing to me. What I desire is far simpler. I asked her for a room adjacent to mine—somewhere I could report to her at any hour, whenever duty called. The truth is, I have no grand ambitions. I ask only to observe her cultivation, to witness her journey. Because watching her is enough.