The door creaked open, and Wen Liang straightened, forcing his posture into what he imagined an immortal master might adopt—back straight, gaze calm, every gesture deliberate. Inside, his heart raced like a startled deer.
A man in his late twenties stepped into the lamplight. His robes were dark, stitched with faint silver lines, his hair tied neatly, his aura steady yet strained. His sharp eyes scanned the room before settling on Wen Liang.
He bowed deeply, fists clasped.
"Immortal Master. Forgive this intrusion."
Wen Liang inclined his head, summoning a voice as calm as the manuals advised. "Why have you sought me at this hour?"
The man straightened. "Because I sensed a ripple in the night. A thread of qi stirring, faint yet certain. Such signs come only when one steps onto the path."
Wen Liang kept his expression placid, though his heart lurched. He noticed… even from outside?
The man's voice lowered. "I came to confirm whether my senses deceived me. I could not mistake a mortal for an immortal master."
Silence pressed down. Wen Liang lifted his chin, let it linger, then finally answered, tone measured:
"My path has only just begun, yet every beginning carries weight. Do you doubt what you sensed?"
The man blinked, then bowed again, deeper. "Not at all. Forgive me for testing your presence with my words."
Inside, Wen Liang nearly collapsed in relief. Bluff passed. For now.
But Zhang Wei did not leave. His fists clenched, his face shifting from formality to something heavier—hope tempered by desperation.
"I… came not only to confirm," he admitted. "I came seeking guidance. My name is Zhang Wei, a cultivator at the late stage of Qi Refinement. Yet in recent months, my qi has turned restless, chaotic. Each meditation scatters into turbulence. My elders say I must temper my heart demons, but I find no clarity. Without it, I cannot take the step toward Foundation Establishment."
He lowered his gaze, voice trembling faintly. "If this continues, my cultivation will collapse."
Wen Liang froze. Heart demons… emotional turmoil interfering with cultivation. That sounds less like qi and more like a panic disorder.
It was familiar: clients trapped in cycles of fear, unable to progress. Back on Earth, he had guided people through sleepless nights, spiraling thoughts, and crippling self-doubt.
Now, here stood Zhang Wei, bowing to him as if he were an immortal sage.
"Immortal Master," Zhang Wei continued, "I know my request is shameless. Yet if you would spare even a word, a method, or a fragment of insight, I would repay it with all that I have."
Wen Liang forced his breathing to steady. His instinct was to help. But he could not simply rattle off therapy advice in modern terms—he had to cloak it in the language of this world.
At last, he spoke slowly:
"Your heart is clouded. Without clarity, your qi cannot flow. Before I offer guidance, I must see if your sincerity is true."
Zhang Wei pressed a fist to his chest and bowed. "Test me as you will."
Wen Liang rose from the bed, clasping his hands behind his back. He let silence weigh on the room, the oil lamp flickering shadows over the scrolls.
"Describe your cultivation," he ordered. "From your breath to your thoughts. Do not conceal, do not embellish."
Zhang Wei obeyed. He spoke of long hours of meditation, of surges of qi that spiked without warning, of doubts gnawing at him until his chest tightened and his meridians quivered.
As he listened, Wen Liang recognized the signs—anxiety manifesting as qi turbulence. Not a flaw in Zhang Wei's foundation, but in his mindset.
When Zhang Wei finished, Wen Liang closed his eyes as though pondering ancient mysteries. In truth, he was translating therapy into Daoist phrasing.
At last, he said:
"Your problem lies not in qi, but in heart. You force it to obey, and it rebels. To tame a river, one does not dam it in anger, but guides it with channels. Sit."
Zhang Wei obeyed instantly, sitting cross-legged before him.
"Close your eyes," Wen Liang instructed. "Do not reach for qi. Let it come as it will. Count your breaths—ten inhalations, ten exhalations. If stray thoughts arise, let them drift like leaves upon a stream. Do not seize them, do not fight them."
Zhang Wei nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the sound of slow breathing. At first Zhang Wei's face twitched, his breath uneven. But as Wen Liang spoke softly, guiding him—"Loosen your chest. Release your jaw. Do not chase, only allow"—the tension eased.
The flickering qi around Zhang Wei steadied, no longer scattering wildly.
Wen Liang's own heart swelled. It's working. He's calming down…
Finally, Zhang Wei opened his eyes. His gaze was clearer, his shoulders no longer so rigid. He touched his chest, stunned.
"…My qi… it's calm. For the first time in months, it flows without tearing."
He bowed deeply, nearly pressing his forehead to the floor. "Immortal Master, you have saved my cultivation! One more failure, and my path might have ended."
Wen Liang swallowed, keeping his face serene though pride bloomed inside him. "Remember this: cultivation is not conquest over the self. It is guidance of the self. Repeat this practice, and your heart will no longer bind you."
"Yes, Master!" Zhang Wei's voice trembled with gratitude.
From within his robe, Zhang Wei pulled a small pouch, setting it reverently before Wen Liang. Spirit stones gleamed within, their faint glow like captured starlight.
"This is but a token of respect. Please accept it. Should you ever require aid, Zhang Wei will come at once."
Wen Liang's fingers itched at the sight, but he folded his hands behind his back, giving only a slow nod. "I accept your sincerity."
Zhang Wei bowed three more times before retreating from the room, leaving Wen Liang alone in the dim lamplight.
The door closed. Silence returned.
Wen Liang finally let out the breath he had been holding, collapsing back onto the bed. His hands trembled, not from fear—but from exhilaration.
I just cured a cultivator… with therapy.
His lips curved faintly. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt not just like a lost man pretending, but like someone who might truly carve a place here.