The city's heartbeat was steady and loud. Each street was a vein carrying life, each stall a pulse of color and sound. Wen Liang walked among it all with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes calm, posture steady. To the crowd, he was yet another aloof cultivator moving with unhurried dignity.
Inside, however, his thoughts spun in tight circles.
I know nothing. Not a single proper realm, not a breathing method, not even how to sit without looking ridiculous. If I keep walking blind, sooner or later, I'll slip. I need knowledge. Now.
It didn't take long for his gaze to settle on a building larger and quieter than most. The front was lined with carved wooden shelves displaying bamboo slips and bound tomes. Above the door hung a wooden plaque painted with flowing characters. Wen Liang didn't need to read the sign to know—this was a bookstore.
His lips tightened. Perfect.
Inside, the scent of ink and paper filled the air. Rows of shelves stretched into the dim space, heavy with books and slips. A thin old man in scholar's robes sat behind the counter, his beard long, his eyes sharp despite the slouch of his shoulders.
Several robed customers browsed silently, their movements measured, their sect insignias faintly glowing. The atmosphere was hushed, reverent.
Wen Liang clasped his hands behind his back, moving slowly through the aisles as though surveying them from a height of wisdom. In truth, he was squinting at the script with desperate intensity, his modern studies in ancient Chinese finally paying off. With effort, he picked out a few titles.
Foundations of Qi Refinement.
The Nine Circuits of Breathing.
Common Cultivation Realms Explained.
The Truth of Spiritual Roots.
His heart leapt. Yes. Exactly what I need.
He gathered a scroll, a slip, and a bound tome. Then, with the practiced calm of a man who once counseled anxious executives, he approached the counter.
"I will take these," he said evenly.
The scholar glanced from the books to Wen Liang, then to the faint bulge of the pouch hidden in his sleeve. His tone softened immediately. "Five low-grade spirit stones, Immortal Master."
Five! Wen Liang's chest constricted. For paper? Robbery. But if I argue, I'll look ignorant.
With deliberate slowness, he withdrew five stones and placed them on the counter. The glow bathed the old man's hands in light, and the scholar accepted them as if they were holy relics.
Whispers rippled from two browsing customers.
"Another cultivator buying foundation manuals?"
"Perhaps for a disciple…"
Wen Liang didn't so much as blink. He tucked the scrolls into his sleeve and strode out, posture calm, expression distant.
Once outside, he ducked into a quieter alley. There, he pulled open his pouch and counted by touch, careful not to let the glow spill into the street.
One… two… three… eight.
Only eight stones remained.
Damn it. I've barely started and I'm already bleeding money. At this pace, I'll starve to death long before enlightenment.
He sighed and tightened the drawstring. Lodging. I need somewhere to stay. I can't risk practicing in the street—or worse, in front of actual cultivators.
The nearest inn wasn't far, a three-story wooden building with carved beams and lanterns glowing warm in the dusk. A plaque above the door read: Azure Rest Inn.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and braised pork. Merchants crowded the tables, shouting and laughing. Servants darted between them, balancing trays.
Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, a plump man with shrewd eyes. His smile widened the moment he caught sight of Wen Liang's bearing and robes.
"Honored Immortal Master," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Welcome to my humble establishment. Would you require a room for the night?"
Wen Liang inclined his head, keeping his voice steady. "Yes. Quiet. And private."
The innkeeper nodded eagerly. "Of course, of course. We have chambers reserved for cultivators. Ten coppers a night… or half a spirit stone for a week."
Half a stone. Wen Liang's stomach clenched. More robbery. But I need the privacy.
From his pouch, he withdrew one spirit stone and placed it on the counter. "For two weeks."
The innkeeper's smile grew radiant, bowing low as he accepted. "At once, Immortal Master. Please follow me."
The room was small but clean: a sturdy bed, a writing desk, a window overlooking the alley below. Wen Liang closed the door, bolted it, and finally—finally—let his posture relax.
He laid the books on the desk, lit the small oil lamp, and opened the first scroll: Foundations of Qi Refinement. The characters glimmered faintly in the lamplight.
Breathe with intent. Inhale the essence of the heavens, exhale the impurities of the body. Guide the flow into your dantian, the sea of qi beneath the navel.
Wen Liang exhaled slowly. That matches what I've read in novels back on Earth. Focused breathing, visualization. Almost like mindfulness meditation, but with higher stakes.
Next, he unrolled The Truth of Spiritual Roots. His eyes devoured each line.
Spiritual roots determine the cultivator's affinity with heaven and earth. A person with no root cannot gather qi no matter how they breathe. Those with poor roots advance with the speed of a crawling snail. Those with high-grade roots advance like dragons soaring among clouds.
His hands tightened on the scroll.
So it isn't just effort. It's… talent. Innate wiring.
The scroll continued: There are five elemental roots: metal, wood, water, fire, and earth. Most mortals possess a mixture, muddy and incomplete, known as a "mixed root." Rare individuals are born with a single pure root, granting unmatched talent. Some rarer still possess heavenly or variant roots, said to be favored by fate itself.
Wen Liang's mouth went dry.
And me? What do I have? Anything at all?
The scroll offered answers, though none were comforting. To identify one's root, sects employ crystal stones attuned to the five elements, or special talismans passed down from ancient times. The root will resonate, revealing its purity. Without such tools, only an elder skilled in soul sense may determine it.
He let the scroll sag in his lap.
"So I might… not even qualify," he whispered to the empty room.
For the first time, the enormity of the challenge pressed down on him. A therapist from Earth, tossed into a world where progress wasn't just discipline—it was destiny.
But after a long silence, he set his jaw and rolled the scroll closed.
Even if my roots are poor… I have to try. If I can counsel cultivators through their demons, I must at least attempt to face my own.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, closed his eyes, and began to breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
For a long time, nothing stirred. But just as doubt threatened to overwhelm him, a faint thread brushed against his skin, cool and fleeting.
His heart jumped. Qi… it's real.
The moment shattered when his concentration wavered, but Wen Liang's lips curled into the first true smile since arriving in this world.
"My immortal path," he whispered into the lamplight, "has just begun."