Starlight began gathering overhead. He found a slightly sloping rock face and lay down, his head resting on his arm. His gaze did not settle on any particular star; he merely watched the slowly drifting points of light, as though entrusting his weight to the curve of the rock and waiting for the starlight to gather in the night wind and sound of the tides one by one.
Spray from waves striking the rocks fell onto the back of his hand and quickly dried. The night breeze carried a faint scent of salt from below, while starlight spread evenly across him like a weightless sheet of fabric slowly drawing in its edges, seeking places to fasten itself between his hem, shoulders, and hair. It bypassed the hands he had placed at the rock's edge, leaving an imperceptible gap between the backs of his hands and the stone.
The waves still sounded in the distance. As light passed through the clouds, fleeting pale shadows formed on the rocks before him, as though readjusting the brightness and depth within and beyond his field of vision so that clusters of more distant stars could emerge one after another through gaps in the low-hanging clouds.
He did not count the stars. He merely waited for the last wisps of cloud to disperse at the edge of his vision, then slowed his breathing, sensing the spiritual energy between heaven and earth as he gradually entered a state of cultivation.
When Xiao Yun woke again, dawn had only just begun to break.
Morning light seeped up from the eastern horizon, not yet fully spread out. The air carried the lingering chill and dampness of the night.
He rose and stretched his shoulders and back, set the iron pot over the fire again, and boiled a pot