Cultivation starts with picking up attributes-Chapter 132: Ch-131: Singing Orchard

The wind changed.

It wasn’t much—a shift so slight most would miss it. But Tian Shen felt it.

Standing at the edge of the orchard, just beyond the stone circle of the Listening Grove, he tilted his head. The air had grown... thinner. Not dangerous. Not yet. But something distant was turning its eyes toward them.

Behind him, the orchard rustled. Leaves whispered secrets in languages older than bone. Plum blossoms fell like stars.

Lan joined him without a word, her cloak trailing dew. She had a habit of arriving like thought: quiet, inevitable.

"The wind speaks?" she asked.

"It listens. And waits."

Lan nodded. "The dreams are shifting, too. People are dreaming of empty chairs and locked doors. Of footsteps that echo but don’t belong to anyone they know."

"Warnings?"

"Maybe. Or memories rising like mist."

...

The scouts began preparing, not out of fear, but rhythm.

They cleaned weapons that had long rested beneath peace. Not polished for parade, but handled with care—grit and gratitude in equal measure.

Feng Yin led an early morning march to the Ridge of Echoes. They trained with blindfolds on, guided only by the sound of wind, breath, and heartbeat.

"The world won’t always speak clearly," she told them. "You need to hear what it doesn’t say."

Ji Luan, meanwhile, orchestrated a chaotic relay involving ducks, colored smoke bombs, and scrambled communication scrolls. When Elder Su raised an eyebrow, Ji Luan grinned and simply said, "Simulation of emotional confusion under stress."

The elder said nothing. But she approved a second session.

...

New scouts arrived that week, guided by stories and riddles. A boy with cloud-colored eyes who claimed he could hear when people were lying.

A quiet girl who hummed melodies no one else remembered. A pair of twins who moved like reflections and finished each other’s movements, not just sentences.

Each brought strangeness. Each was welcomed.

The orchard accepted them, as it always did—not without judgment, but with depth. Those who came with pain found stillness. Those who came with secrets found listening.

And those who came with fear...

...found others who had felt the same.

...

One night, Tian Shen stood by the Reflecting Pool. The moon glimmered across its surface, broken by the occasional ripple of koi just beneath.

Elder Su joined him, her hands tucked into her sleeves.

"They are ready," she said.

"Maybe."

"You doubt them?"

"No. I doubt the shape of what’s coming. We train for swords. But what if it’s sorrow? We build walls for defense. But what if the threat arrives as an idea?"

Su was quiet for a time. Then:

"Then we offer truth. And stories. And a place to sit."

Tian Shen nodded.

...

Lan brought a dream-map two mornings later.

She laid it out on the floor of the Quiet Pavilion. Dozens of drawings and stitched symbols, sewn with thread soaked in ink from her own dream journals.

"This," she said, "is where they are bleeding."

Points along the borderlands glowed faintly in the morning light. Dream fractures, she called them. Places where memory broke, where something unsaid cried out to be named.

Tian Shen crouched beside the map.

"Do we heal them?"

Lan shook her head. "No. We witness. Healing begins there."

Feng Yin knelt beside her. "We divide the scouts. Small teams. Quiet entries. No flags. No claims. Just ears. And hands."

Ji Luan appeared upside down, dangling from a ceiling beam. "And snacks. Diplomacy requires snacks."

No one argued.

...

The orchard bustled, but softly.

There was no panic. Only preparation.

Letters were written and burned. Threads of fate carefully unknotted through meditation. Scout teams packed simple offerings: carved wooden tokens, wind-chimes, pressed herbs, stories written on silk.

Drowsy, sensing change, became clingier than usual. He refused to leave Tian Shen’s side, often draping himself dramatically across his boots. Tian Shen bore it with patient amusement.

"You think you’re the guardian of this place," he murmured once.

Drowsy gave a low, grumbling bark. Agreement.

...

The night before departure, they held a silent feast.

Not because there was nothing to say.

But because silence sometimes said it all.

Lanterns flickered like small stars. Food was passed hand to hand. A song played from the elder chimes—a tune with no name, known only by the way it softened spines and drew tears.

Feng Yin raised a cup. Ji Luan smirked but didn’t ruin the moment. Even Drowsy refrained from begging.

When the meal ended, everyone placed a stone in the center of the courtyard. A tradition borrowed from a wandering monk, meant to signify intention:

I will return.

Tian Shen placed his stone last.

...

At dawn, they left.

Small groups. Quiet steps.

No fanfare.

Only the orchard watching, blessing them in its way.

Tian Shen led one of the parties—the path northward, toward the whispering glens and broken fortresses. Ji Luan veered west with her chaotic duo of scouts. Lan and Feng Yin split southeast, into the valley of forgotten songs.

Each path held uncertainty.

But also promise.

...

Days passed.

Tian Shen’s group encountered a village wrapped in silence. The people smiled but did not speak. Not from fear. From grief too deep for language.

So the scouts didn’t ask questions. They simply stayed.

Built benches. Drew water. Cooked food.

One night, a child began to hum. Then, the next morning, an elder added words. By week’s end, the village was laughing again—softly, not as before. But truly.

...

Lan’s team discovered a chasm filled with statues of people crying.

Feng Yin whispered, "These are echoes. Solidified memories."

Lan nodded. "And they are listening."

They stayed one night. Sang lullabies into the void. Told stories to the stone. By dawn, some statues had tears wiped away.

The chasm felt lighter. Less haunted.

...

Ji Luan’s team accidentally incited a bakery competition in a war-weary town.

What began as a joke turned into a three-day festival.

Arguments over frosting became metaphors for boundary negotiations. Pastry alliances were forged. One woman proclaimed peace through the power of sponge cake.

Ji Luan, face covered in flour, simply grinned.

"Told you snacks were essential."

...

Weeks later, the teams returned.

One by one. Scarred in places. Smiling in others. Tired, but whole.

Each brought something back:

A new folk song. A mended heirloom. Seeds from a tree once thought extinct.

Tian Shen brought a child.

Or rather, a child followed him.

A boy who had been mute. Who now whispered to trees.

Elder Su didn’t ask questions. She simply handed him a place to sleep and a wooden flute.

...

The orchard grew again.

Paths widened. New bells chimed.

The map Lan created expanded across an entire wall.

Drowsy gained three more hats.

Ji Luan invented a new martial art involving juggling.

And Tian Shen, once a blade looking for war, became a root looking for water.

...

One evening, as lanterns blinked awake and dusk kissed the orchard, Little Mei turned to Tian Shen.

"What now?"

He looked across the orchard—at people not just surviving, but becoming.

"Now?" he said.

"Now we grow wider."

She tilted her head.

"Not stronger?"

"Strength comes from standing firm. But sometimes, we must bend. Reach. Give shade."

Little Mei smiled.

"Then we become a forest."

Tian Shen looked up at the moon.

"Yes. A forest that listens."

...

Far away, in a tower forgotten by time, a seer stirred.

She blinked open clouded eyes and whispered.

"The orchard has begun to sing."

And the world, restless and scarred, paused.

...

Tian Shen sat alone beneath the Moonwatch Tree, its bark etched with runes too faded to decipher.

The stars above twinkled with indifferent serenity, but the orchard pulsed with a heartbeat he had come to recognize—not just as land, or place, or sanctuary, but as will.

It was changing.

No longer a place of retreat.

It had become a beginning.

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the day drain through his boots into the soil.

"I used to think we were meant to be swords," he murmured, not to anyone in particular.

Drowsy shifted beside him, resting a massive paw on Tian Shen’s leg with a groan that felt halfway between sympathy and complaint.

Tian Shen chuckled softly. "But maybe we’re seeds."

From behind, a soft laugh. Elder Su emerged from the dark, carrying a lantern and a thin scroll.

"You’re not wrong," she said. "But don’t forget—seeds crack before they grow."

She handed him the scroll. Inside were reports—not of war, but of echoes. Subtle changes. Villages reclaiming their forgotten names. Children who dreamed of ancestors smiling. One temple, long lost to time, now re-lit with prayers.

"The ripple is spreading," she said. "Without blade or blood."

Tian Shen studied the parchment. Then looked up.

Lan stood at the edge of the orchard again, staring toward the horizon.

Feng Yin was deep in sparring with a younger disciple, laughter woven into each strike.

Ji Luan sat in a tree, teaching a trio of owls how to juggle with their talons.

And Little Mei was humming again, barefoot on the stones.

He folded the scroll, placed it aside.

"Then we’ll grow this ripple into a wave."

Elder Su smiled.

"And the forest," she said, "will cover the earth."

And the wind shifted once more—

This time, as if in agreement.