The knock came again, sharper this time, rattling the wooden door of his inn room.
Wen Liang set the scroll aside, his pulse quickening. Already? Word spreads too fast…
He pressed a palm over his abdomen, reassuring himself of the ember nestled in his dantian. It was faint, but real—proof he wasn't entirely helpless. Sixth Layer Qi Sensing, he reminded himself. It may be nothing compared to them, but I am no longer just a mortal.
"Enter," he said finally, steadying his voice the way he once invited patients into his office back on Earth. Calm, neutral, open.
The door creaked. Two men stepped inside.
The first was tall and lean, with sharp eyes and a sword at his waist. His presence was taut, like a drawn bowstring, ready to snap. The second was broader, his face pale and lined with strain. Each breath rattled as though dragging chains. One hand clutched his chest, and Wen Liang could feel it even before the man crossed the threshold—qi, heavy and restless, leaking outward like steam from a cracked kettle.
Qi Refining, Wen Liang realized instantly, throat tightening. If Zhang Wei yesterday was a candle, these two are lanterns burning steady flame.
The tall man cupped his fists. "Immortal Master. Forgive our intrusion. I am Liu Zhen, disciple of the Clear Wind Sect. This is my sworn brother, Zhang Wei."
Wen Liang blinked. Another Zhang Wei? What are the odds? But no—the bearing, the face, the voice were entirely different.
Zhang Wei staggered forward, bowing despite the pain. "Master… I beg you. For three years this affliction has bound me. No pill, no healer, no talisman has eased it. Each night my qi surges wild, clawing at my heart. If it does not kill me soon, it will cripple my cultivation."
Liu Zhen's gaze sharpened, suspicion plain. "Rumors say you cured a cultivator yesterday. If this is truth, prove it now. Aid my brother. If not…" His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. The gesture wasn't a threat—it was a warning.
Wen Liang's palms dampened. His thoughts raced. I can't heal qi deviation, I barely know what meridians are! Yet he remembered countless nights on Earth, patients sitting across from him, desperate and trembling, searching for someone to anchor them.
This wasn't so different.
He drew a slow breath, lowered his gaze, and spoke with deliberate calm.
"My immortal path has only just begun," he said. "But often it is at the beginning that truths are clearest. Sit. Tell me of your suffering in detail."
The broad-shouldered cultivator obeyed, lowering himself to the mat with a grunt. Wen Liang listened—closely, the way he always had. Not only to words, but to pauses, to tremors in the voice, to the way Zhang Wei's hand twitched whenever he spoke of nighttime cultivation.
On Earth, he would have called it chronic anxiety, perhaps mixed with poor breathing patterns, insomnia, and an unhealthy cycle of self-pressure. He had seen versions of this countless times: patients pushing themselves beyond limit, bodies rebelling in panic.
But here, it wore the mask of qi deviation.
"You force your qi each night, do you not?" Wen Liang asked gently. "Pushing it as if the harder you strain, the faster you will advance?"
Zhang Wei's eyes widened. His breath hitched. "How… how could you know?"
"I listen," Wen Liang said simply.
Liu Zhen shifted uneasily, his suspicion faltering.
Wen Liang guided the man into a simple exercise. He masked his words in the rhythm of cultivation, but at their heart lay modern therapy techniques.
"Close your eyes," he instructed. "Place your hand below your navel. Do not seize qi as prey, do not lash it into submission. Instead, notice it. Follow it. Each breath is a current, each exhale a river returning to the sea. When your chest tightens, do not fight. Simply observe."
Zhang Wei obeyed, though his breath at first came ragged, qi leaking in chaotic bursts. Wen Liang watched closely, murmuring steady reassurances, weaving metaphors that cloaked Earth's mindfulness practices in the language of dantian and meridians.
"Your qi is not your enemy," he said. "It rebels because you have treated it as such. If you listen, it will answer."
Minute by minute, Zhang Wei's trembling eased. His breaths grew deeper, slower. Wen Liang noted the sweat on his brow, the way his shoulders loosened, the sudden steadiness of his pulse. He was stabilizing.
At last, Zhang Wei exhaled long and low, like a dam releasing safely into the riverbed. His leaking qi calmed, no longer scraping at the air.
His eyes opened, wet with disbelief. "It… it doesn't hurt. For the first time in years, it doesn't hurt."
Liu Zhen's sword hand dropped. He looked at his sworn brother, then at Wen Liang, astonishment breaking through his stern facade. Slowly, he bowed low until his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Immortal Master Wen," he said firmly, voice trembling with respect. "I doubted you. That was my folly. Forgive me."
Zhang Wei followed, dropping to his knees. His broad frame shook not from pain but from gratitude. "Master… you have given me hope where none remained. I owe you my life."
Wen Liang sat stiffly, heat creeping into his neck. Part of him wanted to shout, I only taught you breathing exercises! But he swallowed the words. He had to protect his role, the thin veil of authority.
Instead, he nodded with practiced serenity. "Your ailment was not incurable. What cultivators call inner demons are sometimes shadows born from haste. Patience is a cure few dare to try."
The brothers exchanged a solemn look, then presented their thanks: a small pouch of spirit stones, heavier than the one Wen Liang had received before, and a jade slip.
"This jade bears my mark," Liu Zhen explained. "Imprint your thought upon it, and we will come, no matter where we are. This is the respect you have earned."
Wen Liang accepted both, bowing his head in return.
When they finally left, silence wrapped the room. Wen Liang sank onto the bed, clutching the jade slip in one hand, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Two Qi Refining cultivators knelt before me… Me, who barely reached Qi Sensing Sixth Layer. If they knew the truth, they would laugh—or worse.
Yet beneath the fear, a fragile pride bloomed. He had helped again, not with force or pills, but with knowledge no cultivator here seemed to value. Words, patience, and breath—simple things, yet powerful.
The ember in his dantian pulsed faintly, as if echoing his thought.
Wen Liang breathed deep, eyes soft. The ladder of realms—Refining, Foundation, Core, Soul—still stretched endlessly above him. But tonight, for the second time, cultivators had walked away whole because of him.
Perhaps this was his true path.
Not as a sword-wielding hero. Not as a divine alchemist.
But as a cultivator's therapist.