Entering the Path of Cultivation

Three days after the battle at Fangcun Mountain, Goten stood beneath the waterfall, the water crashing down from a height of ten zhang.

This time, he didn't grit his teeth to endure it—he closed his eyes, relaxed his body, and let his ki circulate naturally, guiding the impact of the water down into the earth beneath his feet.

The water was no longer an enemy—it had become a part of him.

The time it takes for one incense stick to burn passed. He did not move.

Two incense sticks—he was still sitting. It wasn't until the third stick burned out that he opened his eyes, stood up, and walked out of the pool.

He was now able to sit under the waterfall for the duration of three incense sticks without being swept away. It was nearly three months faster than the three months Patriarch Bodhi had predicted.

Patriarch Bodhi sat under the willow tree on the bank, the pot of Spirit Mist Wine set before him.

He poured a cup and pushed it toward Goten. "From today on, you no longer need to sit under the waterfall."

Goten took the cup and downed it in one gulp.

A warm current dissolved within him, repairing the muscles battered by the water all morning. "Then what do I learn next?"

Patriarch Bodhi did not answer. He stood up and walked to an old locust tree—the very one at the mountain gate.

He extended a finger and lightly traced the trunk—where his finger passed, a deep groove appeared in the bark. It wasn't cut open by external force; the bark had split of its own accord.

Goten's eyes widened—he hadn't sensed any fluctuation of power. "What is this?"

"The most basic principle of Immortal Art—it is not you changing the world, but letting the world change itself."

Goten frowned, thinking it over, but didn't quite understand. "Give me an example—if you wanted to make a rock move, what would you do?"

"Push it."

"Pushing it—that uses your own strength. The way of Immortal Art is—" Patriarch Bodhi squatted down and tapped the ground lightly with his finger, "you tell it—it is time to move."

A crack appeared in the ground. It wasn't cleaved open—the earth itself had yielded a path. Goten's mouth hung open.

"This is Immortal Art—it isn't about using force to accomplish a task—it is about negotiating with the world. If it agrees—the thing is naturally done."

Goten was silent for a long while, then said something that made Patriarch Bodhi pause in surprise: "Isn't this just like the 'ki' of the Saiyans? We don't use our hands to push ki either—we use our intent to make the ki move. It's just that in our world, we fight a bit more violently."

Patriarch Bodhi's eyebrows twitched. "Go on."

"In my world—we call this 'ki'. We sense it, guide it, release it—but we never negotiate with it. We command it."

Goten grew more excited as he spoke. "What you just described wasn't a command—it was a request. The methods are different—but the essence is the same!"

Patriarch Bodhi was silent for a long time, then he smiled—a smile Goten had never seen on his face before, one of relief, as if he had encountered a kindred spirit. "You are more suited to learn this than your father."

Goten froze. "Do you really know my father?"

Patriarch Bodhi did not answer directly.

He stood up, brushed the dust from his robes, and turned toward the cave. "Tomorrow—I will teach you the first technique. Today, think this through: what is a command, and what is a request. If you can't figure it out—don't bother coming."

Goten sat under the willow tree, watching Patriarch Bodhi's back disappear into the cave entrance.

He placed his hand on the groove in the tree trunk—closing his eyes to feel it. He tried to negotiate with the tree.

After a while, he opened his eyes—the trunk remained unchanged. He lowered his head, thought for a moment—then tried a different approach. He placed his hand on the trunk—not to demand anything of it—but to listen to it.

The wind blew through the treetops, and the leaves rustled. He heard it—the "breath" of the tree.

It wasn't power—it was a rhythm.

Every tree had its own rhythm—just as every battle had its own breath.

He opened his eyes—the edges of the groove on the trunk were slightly sprouting new bark.

From that day on, Goten learned the first thing about cultivation—it wasn't about controlling power—it was about listening.

When Zixia found Goten, he was sitting under the old locust tree, one hand pressed against the trunk, his eyes closed.

"You've been sitting here all day."

Goten opened his eyes, and there was something in his gaze that Zixia had never seen before—not the excitement of battle—but tranquility. "Sister Zixia—have you ever heard a tree speak?"

Zixia was stunned. "Trees—cannot speak."

"It can." Goten patted the trunk. "It's just that what it says isn't words—it's a feeling. Just like—you know spring has arrived—not because you see the flowers bloom—but because you feel it. Trees are the same."

Zixia sat down beside him and watched him for a long while. "You've changed."

"How have I changed?"

"When you first arrived, you wanted to fight everything. Now you—are willing to sit and listen."

Goten looked down at his hands. "Because fighting cannot solve every problem."

Zixia didn't speak. She felt this sentence didn't sound like something Goten had realized on his own—it sounded like someone had told him.

She guessed right—this was what Patriarch Bodhi had said to Goten the night before: "Fighting can solve many problems, but it cannot solve all of them. Only when you learn when not to fight—are you truly a strong person."

Zixia stood up and patted Goten on the shoulder. "Learn the first technique tomorrow—don't keep Patriarch Bodhi waiting too long."

Goten nodded. Zixia walked a few steps, then stopped. Without looking back, she said only one thing: "Those words you just said—Sun Wukong said them too."

Goten froze.

Sun Wukong—the Great Sage Equal to Heaven who had wreaked havoc in the Heavenly Palace five hundred years ago—had also sat under this same tree, and had said the same thing: I have heard the breath of the trees.

Zixia did not look back, but she smiled—that smile in the moonlight was faint and light—like someone who had waited five hundred years and finally heard an echo.