The ancient woman, whom Wei Feng now knew as Eighteen, moved with a surprising swiftness for her age. She produced a worn, small hessian sack from beneath a nearby table and hefted it onto the edge of a different stone tub. The bag emitted a medley of dry rustling sounds and a faint, earthy aroma. “Come help me with this tub”.


    Wei Feng stepped out of his tub, wrapped himself in a light clean rob that hung nearby and moved to help, an odd feeling of exposure, a mix of curiosity and apprehension swirling within him, as she began to unpack the contents of the sack. There were rough-hewn packets of dried herbs, some emitting a sharp, almost medicinal scent, others with a sweet, floral fragrance. There were chunks of coarse salt, shimmering with an otherworldly iridescence, and small clay jars filled with viscous, dark oils. Eighteen handled each item with a reverence that bordered on ritualistic, her movements precise and deliberate.


    She began to explain the process, her words clipped and to the point. "First, the salts. They will draw out the impurities, the filth that clings to you. Then the herbs, to heal and invigorate. Finally, the oils, to nourish and protect." She didn''t elaborate on what kind of impurities, or what needed healing, but Wei Feng didn''t dare ask.


    With a grunt, Eighteen tipped the first packet of salts into the steaming water. Immediately, the water began to change. It shimmered with an unnatural glow, and a faint, acrid smell filled the air. Wei Feng wrinkled his nose, but Eighteen merely snorted. "Don''t be such a whelp. It''s working."


    She continued to add the various ingredients, each one causing a new reaction in the water. The herbs turned the liquid a murky green, the spices added a faint reddish tinge, and the oils created swirling patterns on the surface. The mixture began to bubble and hiss, and the steam rising from the tub became thick and pungent. Wei Feng coughed, his eyes watering, but Eighteen simply waved a dismissive hand. "Breathe it in, boy. It''s good for you."


    Hesitantly, Wei Feng did as he was told. The fumes stung his nostrils at first, but then a strange sensation washed over him. His nasal passages cleared instantly, and he felt a sudden rush of energy, as if the very air he was breathing was alive. It was an odd, almost unsettling feeling, but it was also undeniably invigorating.


    "Now," Eighteen said, her voice taking on a harder edge, "into the tub."


    Wei Feng hesitated for only a moment before disrobing and stepping into the water. The heat was intense, almost scalding, but he gritted his teeth and lowered himself in. As the water enveloped him, he could feel it biting into his skin, a strange, almost electric sensation. It was as if the very bubbles of the water were alive, probing and testing him.


    Then, something extraordinary happened. Wei Feng looked down at his arms and saw that the scars that had marked his skin for years, the small nicks and cuts from his life on the streets, were beginning to fade. The scar from the nail above his knee, the burn marks on his arms, the scars from the mauling he had taken, a constant reminder of a particularly nasty encounter with a pack of stray dogs, was slowly disappearing. The calluses on his hands, hardened from years of scavenging and labor, were softening, smoothing. It was as if the water was erasing the marks of his past, stripping away the layers of grime and hardship that had clung to him for so long.


    But then, everything changed. The water, which had been merely hot, suddenly became searing. A surge of energy, unlike anything Wei Feng had ever felt, coursed through the tub, and he felt as if he was being boiled alive. The fumes became thick and choking, and the air crackled with an almost palpable power. It was as if the potent mixture of herbs, salts, spices, and oils had suddenly turned on him, becoming a force of destruction rather than cleansing.


    Wei Feng felt a searing agony, as if he was being burned from within. It was a mix of sensations, a feeling of being invaded, of being torn apart and burned from the inside out. He felt as if the very mixture had invaded his body, and was now working to burn out every single impurity from his core. He watched in horror as a black, viscous liquid began to seep from his pores, coating his skin in a foul-smelling slime. He could feel his mouth stretching wide, and he knew he should be screaming, but no sound came out.


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    Panic seized him. He thrashed in the water, desperate to escape the torment, but it was no use. The water held him fast, as if it had become a living entity, intent on completing its work. He thought of his parents, of their quiet schoolhouse, of the laughter of children, and a wave of despair washed over him. He thought they had given him a chance, but instead, they were trying to kill him. He thought he was not worthy of this. This wasn''t a test; this was murder.


    He thought of the stories he had heard on the streets, the whispers of children disappearing into the Respite’s Hearth, and a cold dread settled in his gut. Was this what happened to them? Were they subjected to this terrible ordeal, and left for dead, disposed of and discarded? He regretted coming here. He regretted his desperation. He regretted everything.


    But then, something shifted within him. As the pain intensified, as he felt himself teetering on the edge of oblivion, a spark of defiance ignited in his heart.


    He closed his eyes and focused inward, searching for something, anything, to anchor him. And then, he found it. A small light, a tiny flicker of warmth, deep within his core. It felt like it floated in the darkness, placed just below his navel. His body still burned, and he focused on the small flame, so small and delicate, so weak. So... after moments of inaction, thirteen feed it. he feed the flame his anger, his rage, the pain, his pain and it sucked it all in, flicking he grew ever so lightly, its colour shifted from pale yellow to a healthy orange and red. His focus, maddening, he only thought of that small flame within. It gave him hope, as the pain, the searing pain burned his very insides. This searing pain was still driving him mad, driving him to the point of losing himself, but as he feed the flame it grew every so slightly, giving him a sense of achievement at least.


    As he focused on the light, the pain began to recede, just a fraction at a time, but enough to give him hope. He realized that the torment was not just physical. It was also a test, a trial of his will, his resilience. It tested his very soul. He was tittering on oblivion. He wanted to give up, release himself to the fire and pain and just melt away. Flashes of his past drew him out of his misery, the smile of his mother, the laughter of his father, the smell of their hugs, his mother''s terrible cooking, all memories burned into the back of his mind, a place he had not visited in the last couple of years. He felt the pain of loss, and he felt the ugly want of vengeance, the desperation of not being able to exact revenge on their murderers. He clung to that hopelessness, if he died here, there was no chance of revenge.


    Rage pushed him through the threshold. It was rage that bought him back. The flame flickered as soon as it felt him seeth in agony, pain and rage. He gripped the flame and compressed it down in his mind, pushed it hard, wrung the very essence of its light with his anger. Fear gripped him a little, the flame condensed, flicked like it was afraid. It has been his salvation, it had ate his pain, the agony, the rage, why was he trying to put it out. He paused, stopped himself, and looked up on the flame almost apologetically.


    Finally his rage had dissipated, he focused on the light, nurturing it, cupping the single flame, until it grew stronger, brighter. It became a beacon in the darkness, a source of strength and resolve. And as he held onto that light, he found a strange sense of peace. He was still in pain, yes, but it was a bearable dull pain now, a pain that he could endure.


    He felt as if he was being stripped bare, not just of the grime on his skin, but of the layers of fear and doubt that had accumulated over the years. He was being refined, purified, transformed.


    The burning continued, but Wei Feng found a strange sense of stillness within the tempest. He was an island in the midst of a raging sea, the small light within him his anchor. He felt as if he was floating in an endless void, the darkness pressing in on all sides, but the light kept him centered, kept him sane.


    He lost all track of time. Minutes stretched into hours, hours into eternities. The pain ebbed and flowed, sometimes intense, sometimes barely noticeable, but the light remained constant, a steady, unwavering presence. He became one with the darkness, one with the pain, one with the light. He was no longer Wei Feng, the street urchin, the orphan. He was something else, something more. He was a vessel being refined, a body being tempered, a spirit being reforged.


    And as he floated in the darkness, focusing on the small light, he felt a strange sense of acceptance. He accepted the ordeal, accepted the transformation, accepted his fate. He was where he was meant to be, enduring this fated test. He was paying the price of survival, and he would pay it willingly. He would endure, no!, he had already endured, this was only just a small blip in his journey.


    Then he heard the crone''s voice, “His coming out of it”.