The lamp's flame wavered, shadows stretching long across the wooden walls of the inn chamber. Wen Liang sat cross-legged on the bed, his back ramrod straight, the faint smell of oil and ink in the air. Before him, a set of scrolls lay open, their characters etched in a calligraphy both elegant and severe.
He mouthed the first line yet again:
Sit with the spine straight. Breathe in silence. Draw the essence of heaven and earth into the dantian. Retain, circulate, refine.
Closing his eyes, he slowed his breath.
It sounds so simple… but if even one breath were enough, the streets would be filled with immortals.
He let the bustle of the inn below—laughter, footsteps, clinking cups—fade into nothing.
Here, there was only the rhythm of his heart and the whisper of his lungs.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Hold.
Release.
At first it was awkward, forced, like trying to balance on a thin rope. His chest burned, his legs ached, and his mind wandered to ridiculous thoughts: Is this posture bad for my back? Shouldn't I be on a mat instead of a creaky inn bed?
But then, gradually, the clutter thinned. The rhythm steadied.
And then it came.
A thread. Cool, elusive—like mist brushing against his skin. It slid with his breath, faint yet undeniable.
His pulse jumped. He seized the sensation, guiding it with painstaking care.
Down the throat.
Past the chest.
Toward the lower abdomen.
It scattered like smoke. He gritted his teeth, steadied his breath, tried again. Again and again, he failed. Again and again, he began anew.
Time crawled. The lamp burned low. Sweat dampened his back. But he endured. Patience—his oldest tool, honed through years of therapy—anchored him.
At last, the thread sank inward, pooling faintly beneath his navel. Fragile, unsteady, but real.
Wen Liang gasped, clutching his abdomen. His eyes flew open.
"That…" His breath shook. "That was real."
Warmth lingered at his core, weak but steady, like an ember caught in the dark.
Hands trembling, he grabbed the scroll titled On the Path of Cultivation. His eyes darted across the lines.
Mortals know not the flow of qi. Only upon first sensing and drawing it inward does one step onto the path. This stage is called the Qi Sensing Realm.
His throat went dry. He pressed a palm to his abdomen, where the faint ember pulsed.
"…Then… I've stepped into a realm."
The words slipped from his lips in awe.
He read on, eyes widening:
After Qi Sensing, one who persists may reach Qi Refinement, where the dantian becomes a vessel for stored essence. Next is Foundation Establishment, tempering body and spirit into the bedrock of immortality. Higher still is the Core Formation Realm, where one condenses all essence into a golden core, the seed of longevity. Above that lies Nascent Soul—the last stage mortals speak of with certainty—where a cultivator births a soul infant capable of roaming free from flesh. Realms beyond… if they exist at all… are but whispers and myths in the mortal world.
Wen Liang's gaze lingered on that final line.
"So… only up to Nascent Soul is known. And here I am, barely scratching Qi Sensing." He let out a shaky laugh. "A pebble at the base of a mountain that vanishes into clouds."
He closed his eyes and breathed, the ember in his abdomen pulsing faintly. Despite the enormity of the path ahead, he smiled.
"My immortal path," he whispered, "has begun."
Knock. Knock.
The sound jolted him upright. His head snapped toward the door, breath caught in his throat.
At this hour?
He had spoken to no one but the innkeeper. Could someone have noticed the faint ripple of qi he stirred?
"Honored Immortal Master," a man's voice came from the hall, soft and respectful. "Might I have a word?"
Wen Liang's heart thundered. His eyes flicked toward the manuals strewn across the desk, the pouch of spirit stones, the dying flame of the lamp.
I just stepped into cultivation… and already, someone comes knocking.
He forced calm into his voice. "…Who is it?"
Silence stretched. Then the voice returned, calm but edged with urgency.
"Someone who sensed an Immortal's awakening."