The days that followed were filled with sweat, pain, and the slow, patient pull of roots through unseen soil.

  Lin Xian woke before dawn and returned to the hollowed tree.

  Each morning, he knelt before the sapling at the heart of his Spirit Garden, feeding it carefully with gathered Verdant Qi.

  Each afternoon, he practiced the patterns the old man of the Sunken Archives had shown him: weaving spirit vines through mist and stone, coaxing seeds to bloom in flashes of wild energy.

  Each night, he collapsed against the cracked stone fountain, Gourdo curled loyally at his side, vines twitching protectively in his sleep.

  The Sect’s eyes grew sharper.

  The whispers grew louder.

  The soil grew deeper.

  Inside the Spirit Garden, real change had begun.

  The weed-seed planted by the old man had sprouted.

  Tiny at first — a mere curl of stubborn green — it now coiled protectively around the sapling’s base, its leaves sharp-edged and glinting.

  It drank corruption and decay like wine, weaving its roots into the weakest patches of soul-soil, binding fractures together.

  Not beautiful.

  Not delicate.

  But strong.

  Unyielding.

  Lin Xian had named it Thornbind.

  It seemed to approve.

  His first true technique emerged by instinct more than study.

  One morning, as he meditated among the ancient roots of the Sealed Grove, he felt a tremor through the ground — faint but steady.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see a massive, feral spirit squirrel — twisted by wild Qi — charging toward him through the mist, teeth bared.

  Too fast.

  Too close.

  He had no sword.

  No shield.

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  Only instinct.

  Lin Xian slammed one hand into the earth.

  The Spirit Garden within him pulsed.

  Roots answered.

  Thin green tendrils erupted from the ground, coiling around the charging beast’s limbs, yanking it sideways with a squeal of rage and surprise.

  The spirit squirrel hit the ground hard, writhing.

  Roots tightened, thorns sprouting along their lengths, binding flesh and spirit alike.

  Root Grasp.

  The first technique.

  Born not from violence, but from protection.

  Control.

  Patience.

  Strength.

  Lin Xian rose slowly, breathing hard.

  The captured spirit beast thrashed once, twice — then sagged, exhausted.

  Gourdo chittered approvingly from his perch.

  Lin Xian smiled, reaching down to pat the golem’s cracked head.

  "I think we’re getting the hang of this," he murmured.

  The Spirit Garden within him thrummed in agreement.

  Later that night, as the mist rolled thicker across the ruins, he practiced again.

  The old man's lessons drifted through his mind like falling petals:

  "The Verdant Path does not strike first."

  "It sets roots. Waits. Entangles."

  Lin Xian crouched low, pressing spirit seeds — tiny capsules of condensed Verdant Qi — into the earth.

  He wove thin strands of Qi through them, binding their growth into tightly coiled spirals.

  When triggered — by motion, by sound, by hostile intent — the seeds would erupt in bursts of binding vines, snaring and disabling.

  He dubbed the technique Spirit Seed Burst.

  Simple.

  Clever.

  Devastating against the proud, the arrogant — those who charged without thinking, who relied on strength alone.

  He tested it carefully.

  Gourdo volunteered as the "enemy" — waddling bravely across the shallow pit where Lin Xian had planted the seeds.

  As soon as Gourdo’s stubby foot touched the hidden trigger, the ground exploded in a net of snapping vines.

  The golem yelped, flailing, wrapped in a bundle of leaves and tendrils.

  Lin Xian winced, rushing to free him.

  But Gourdo only huffed, puffing out his little vine-chest proudly as if daring Lin Xian to plant a better trap next time.

  Lin Xian laughed for the first time in days — real, deep laughter that echoed through the empty garden.

  The techniques grew stronger with each practice.

  The Spirit Garden within him blossomed in turn.

  Tiny vines now crept along the edges of the soul-soil, strengthening weak patches, weaving silent protections.

  The sapling at the center gleamed under starlight, four full leaves unfurled now, fluttering in unseen winds.

  He was still far from strong.

  Far from safe.

  But now, he had weapons.

  Tools.

  A path.

  Not the Sect’s path of sword and storm.

  His own.

  Roots and vines.

  Trap and bind.

  Survive and bloom.

  One night, after a particularly exhausting training session, Lin Xian sat under the hollow tree, Gourdo snoring softly against his side.

  He stared up at the swirling mist, the faint stars beyond.

  The Sect would come for him.

  The rumors, the fear — they would not fade.

  They would sharpen.

  Harden.

  Strike.

  But he would not bend.

  He had techniques now.

  He had roots.

  He had companions.

  He had a garden — living, breathing, fighting — within his soul.

  The wind shifted.

  He rose slowly, feeling the Spirit Garden pulse in warning.

  Distant voices echoed through the mist — harsh, clipped.

  Patrols.

  Searching.

  The Sect was stirring more seriously now.

  Soon, they would find excuses.

  Accusations.

  Punishments.

  Trials.

  Lin Xian placed a hand against the ancient bark of the hollow tree.

  "I’m not ready yet," he murmured. "But I will be."

  The Spirit Garden throbbed in silent agreement.

  Roots do not fear the axe.

  They grow deeper.

  Wider.

  Stronger.

  Until even mountains fall before them.

  He turned back toward the broken garden paths.

  Time to sow new seeds.

  Time to prepare.

  The Verdant Path had begun.

  And he would walk it to its end — no matter how many storms tried to tear him down.