The morning after the brothers left, Wen Liang remained seated at his desk long after the lamp burned out. The faint glow of the jade slip still lingered in his hand, its surface cool, its presence strangely heavy.
Two cultivators had bowed to him. Qi Refining cultivators—men who, by the scale of this world, stood far above mortals—had called him Immortal Master Wen.
And he had helped them.
Not with talismans or pills. Not with sword arts or profound mantras. With breathing techniques, patience, and the careful questions he once used in a quiet office across the sea of worlds.
Yet as the night gave way to dawn, Wen Liang's thoughts grew troubled.
If word spreads too far, they will keep coming. One by one, then in crowds. I cannot guide everyone for free, not here. And if I do not set boundaries, I will drown in their demands.
On Earth, he had seen this before. Patients who paid nothing often treated their sessions as nothing. They skipped appointments, resisted change, demanded endlessly, and left no better than they came. A fee was not greed—it was an anchor, a weight that made the work real.
And here, without silver, sect, or land to his name, he needed more than respect. He needed spirit stones to survive.
He tapped the jade slip against the desk, lips pressed thin.
Then it must become business. I will help them, but not cheaply, not freely. If their burdens are heavy, their payment must be heavy. That is the only way both of us will take the healing seriously.
The decision steadied something inside him.
That afternoon, Wen Liang walked the bustling streets of the city.
Stalls brimmed with calligraphy scrolls, spirit herbs, and charms etched with half-effective arrays. Merchants cried out the virtues of pills said to "calm the heart demons" or "clear the mind for cultivation." Wen Liang watched cultivators haggle, their eyes tired, their movements strained.
So many of them are restless, he thought. No wonder they chase pills and talismans. They have nowhere else to turn.
A stall selling brush and ink caught his eye. Wen Liang stopped, fingering a few samples of black ink, crisp parchment, and lacquered wood. The calligrapher, a wiry old man, raised a brow.
"Looking to hang your name, scholar?"
"Something like that," Wen Liang replied with a faint smile. "I need a sign. Nothing ornate—just clear, respectable. Words matter more than decorations."
The old man chuckled. "And what words do you want the world to see?"
Wen Liang thought carefully, recalling the countless therapy offices back on Earth: Calm Horizons Counseling, Inner Balance Clinic, The Healing Path. Names that whispered of peace and guidance.
He dipped his head. "Write this: Therapist of the Immortal Path – Guidance for Those Troubled in Mind, Qi, and Spirit. Payment Equal to the Weight of Your Burden."
The calligrapher blinked. "A therapist… for cultivators?"
Wen Liang only smiled. "Write it well, and you'll see soon enough."
By evening, the polished sign hung from the second-floor balcony of his inn, its black strokes bold against pale wood.
The innkeeper nearly tripped over herself when she saw it.
"Master Wen!" she gasped, hands wringing in her apron. "You… you truly intend to set up shop? Do you know how many cultivators there are in this city? They'll flood to you!"
"That is precisely why I need the sign," Wen Liang said gently. "Better to meet them openly than to hide and invite rumors. This way, the rules are clear."
The innkeeper's eyes darted between him and the sign, half in awe, half in fear. But she said no more.
Outside, passersby slowed. Some pointed. Some whispered. And some, faces shadowed by weariness, looked up with the faint spark of hope.
The first to knock came before the lanterns were even lit.
A young woman in plain gray robes, hair tied hastily, eyes rimmed with red. She bowed low, wringing her hands.
"Immortal Master," she said, voice trembling. "Forgive my boldness… I can no longer still my heart during meditation. My qi scatters like leaves in the wind. Pills worsen it. I have tried talismans, chants—nothing works. Please… I will pay whatever you demand."
Wen Liang studied her quietly. Her gaze darted, fingers twitched, shoulders tensed with every breath. On Earth, he would have named it anxiety with chronic insomnia, worsened by stimulants.
Here, it was merely another kind of qi imbalance.
He gestured to the cushion across from him. "Sit. Tell me everything."
She poured her story out in torrents—nights spent sitting rigid in meditation, heartbeat hammering, thoughts spinning until dawn. Fear of failure driving her to force qi harder, harder, until it slipped like water through broken hands.
Wen Liang listened, letting her words run their course. Then he spoke softly.
"Your qi does not scatter because it is weak. It scatters because your spirit thrashes it like a storm. Do this: for seven nights, cease cultivation. Do not chase qi. Only breathe, as mortals breathe. When the racing thoughts come, count your breaths—one, two, three, until the heart quiets. Only when calm returns, guide qi gently. Not before."
The woman's eyes brimmed with tears. Relief, sharp and sudden, washed over her face. She bowed deeply. "Master… you've given me hope where I had none."
Wen Liang inclined his head. "Then you know what remains. Payment."
Her trembling hands opened a small lacquered box. Inside lay two spirit stones and a delicate talisman etched with faint characters. She pushed it forward. "This is all I have, but it is dear to me. Will it suffice?"
Wen Liang weighed the offering. Her ailment was not grave, yet not trivial. He nodded. "This is equal. I accept."
She bowed again, nearly to the floor, before leaving with a steadier step.
By night's end, three more cultivators had arrived.
One plagued by nightmares that shattered his meditation. Another gripped by grief so deep his qi stagnated, choking his circulation. The last, a young man trembling with fear of failure, his qi collapsing every time he attempted progress.
For each, Wen Liang listened. He drew on methods of grounding, reframing thoughts, regulating breath—tools no pill or sword could provide. He wove them into the language of cultivation: calming demons, untangling qi threads, harmonizing spirit with breath.
And each left lighter than they arrived. Each, without hesitation, paid—spirit stones, talismans, even a small pouch of dried herbs precious enough to sell for silver.
When silence returned at last, Wen Liang sat at his desk, staring at the small pile of offerings.
It was not the wealth of sect elders or pill masters. But it was real, tangible, enough to buy books, food, and lodging for months. Enough to stand a little more firmly in this world.
He leaned back, fingers brushing the wooden sign still faintly smelling of fresh ink.
So this is my path, he thought. Not swordplay, not alchemy, not sect inheritance. But therapy. Healing cultivators, one mind at a time. And they will pay—because their burdens demand it.
For the first time since awakening in this strange world, Wen Liang felt not just like a guest drifting on chance, but like someone building a place that was his.
Outside, lanterns flickered along the street. Passersby pointed, whispered, and spread word. And more footsteps, curious and hesitant, began to turn toward the modest sign on the balcony:
"Therapist of the Immortal Path."