The aftermath of the Crimson Bone Nectar bath left Ju-Mayi feeling strangely hollow and hypersensitive. His skin, though unblemished thanks to the concoction's paradoxical regenerative properties, tingled as if perpetually sunburnt. His tiny muscles ached with a deep, unfamiliar fatigue. The vibrant, terrifying world of the fortress felt muted, yet every sound – the distant clash of training weapons, the groan of ancient stone settling, the skittering of unseen insects – was amplified, grating against his raw nerves.
He was entrusted not to a gentle nursemaid, but to **Nanny Mo**.
She arrived like a shadow given human form. Her robes were the grey of weathered tombstones, swallowing any hint of shape or movement. Her face was a landscape of deep wrinkles, carved by time and an environment devoid of kindness, resembling cracked riverbed clay. Her eyes, the colour of flint, held no warmth, only a flat, assessing vigilance. Her Qi, when Ju-Mayi's newly sensitized perception brushed against it, felt like the cold, damp earth of a deep grave – heavy, still, and utterly devoid of life. Her touch, when she lifted him from the temporary bassinet woven from demon-weep willow, was efficient, impersonal, and cold as stone.
Her methods were simple and unyielding. Hunger was her primary teaching tool. She fed him not milk, but thin, bitter concoctions brewed from ironwort and shadow-root, smelling of damp earth and old metal. They sustained him, barely, but offered no comfort, no satisfaction. If he fussed, turned his head, or spat out the foul liquid, the bowl was simply withdrawn. He learned quickly that resistance meant only gnawing emptiness. Compliance brought the cessation of hunger, nothing more.
Her second tool was silence and isolation. She spoke only when necessary, her voice a dry rasp like stone grinding on stone. She offered no lullabies, no soothing words. The nursery chamber, adjacent to the Sanctum of Tempering, was austere. Black stone walls, a single high slit window admitting minimal grey light, a hard pallet for her, and his cradle carved from cold basalt. There were no toys, no colourful hangings. The only decorations were the inherent, terrifying murals faintly visible on the chamber's far wall, depicting stylized demons battling celestial beings under moons of blood and ice. This starkness was deliberate. Distraction was weakness. His world was power, discipline, and survival.
Her third tool, and the most fundamental, was the **Breath of the Abyssal Well**.
"Breathe," she commanded, the first words she spoke directly to him beyond feeding instructions. She stood before his cradle, her flint eyes pinning him. "Not like a mewling kitten. Like stone sinking into the deep earth. **In.**" Her own chest expanded with a slow, deep inhalation that seemed to pull the very light from the room. Ju-Mayi, instinctively mimicking, drew a shaky breath.
"Too shallow," she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. "From the belly. Deep. Feel the cold of the mountain's heart. Draw it *up*." She placed a cold, calloused hand on his tiny abdomen, pressing slightly. "**In.**"
He tried again, focusing on the pressure, drawing air deeper than he thought possible. It felt strange, uncomfortable, filling him with a coolness that contrasted sharply with the lingering phantom heat of the Nectar.
"Hold," Nanny Mo instructed, her hand remaining firm. "Let the cold settle. Let it seep into your bones. Become still. Become stone."
He held the breath, his small chest straining. The world seemed to narrow, the sounds fading slightly. A strange sense of stillness, heavy and cold, began to settle within him.
"**Out,**" she hissed, a slow, controlled exhalation that seemed to expel warmth and weakness. "Push the weakness out. Expel the dross. Sharp. Controlled. Like a blade leaving its sheath."
He exhaled, trying to mimic the sharpness, the control. It felt like releasing a burden.
Again. And again. Nanny Mo enforced the rhythm with relentless precision. Deep, cold inhale, drawing from an imaginary well deep in the earth beneath the fortress. Hold, letting the stillness solidify. Sharp, precise exhale, expelling impurity. The cycle was monotonous, exhausting, and enforced for what felt like hours. If his attention wavered, if his breath hitched or became shallow, her hand would press harder, or the next feeding would be delayed. Pain and hunger were the penalties for lapse.
Yet, within this harsh regimen, Ju-Mayi's innate curiosity began to surface. His amber eyes, no longer solely filled with pain or hunger, started to truly *observe*. He watched the way the scant light shifted through the high window throughout the day, painting faint moving rectangles on the floor. He studied the terrifying murals, the sinuous forms of the battling demons, the frozen agony on the faces of the celestial beings. He listened intently, learning to distinguish the sounds: the rhythmic tread of patrolling guards (heavy boots, clinking chainmail), the distant, guttural shouts from the training yards, the eerie, high-pitched whine of the wind through the mountain peaks.
He also observed Nanny Mo. Her absolute stillness when not actively engaged with him. The way her flint eyes missed nothing, constantly scanning the chamber, the corridor beyond the heavy door. The faint, almost imperceptible way her grave-dirt Qi would subtly shift, like disturbed earth, when someone approached the door long before they knocked. He learned that silence could be a language, stillness a form of power, and observation a vital survival skill.
One day, during the enforced breathing, a large, glossy black beetle crawled across the floor near his cradle. Ju-Mayi's eyes tracked it, fascinated by its slow, deliberate progress. His breath hitched, the rhythm broken.
Nanny Mo's hand clamped down on his abdomen like a vise. "Focus, whelp!" she rasped. "The insect is irrelevant. Your breath is your foundation. Lose focus, lose strength. Lose strength, die."
Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, but he forced them back. He refocused, drawing in the deep, cold breath, holding the stillness, expelling sharply. But the lesson was learned. The world outside his breath was filled with distractions, potential threats, and fleeting fascinations. To survive, he must first master the stillness within. The Breath of the Abyssal Well wasn't just an exercise; it was the first step in building an inner fortress as unyielding as the black stone surrounding him. He was learning to be still, to observe, and to endure. The shadow of Nanny Mo was his constant, harsh reminder.