The small chamber was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the oil lamp. Wen Liang sat cross-legged on the thin bedding, his fingers curled around a smooth spirit stone that shimmered faintly with pale blue light.
For days now, he had listened to the problems of others, guiding them with words. Tonight, however, he turned inward.
The books he purchased from the city's markets lay open beside him, marked with his careful notes. Again and again, they repeated the same method:
Absorb the ambient qi through breath. Guide it into the dantian. Let it circulate through the meridians, refining the body and spirit in harmony.
But Wen Liang's room had no rich spiritual field. The qi of heaven and earth here was thin, scattered like mist. For true cultivation, one needed the stones.
He stared at the spirit stone in his palm, the very same kind that had clinked against his desk as payment from his patients.
I have treated others. If I cannot even treat myself, what authority do I hold here?
Slowly, deliberately, he closed his eyes and began.
At first, the sensation was gentle. Cool streams of energy flowed from the stone into his palm, trickling along his meridians like spring water. He guided it with the method described in the book—breath even, mind calm, drawing qi downward toward the dantian.
The first cycle felt smooth, almost deceptively so. His body shivered as the energy pooled inside him, heavier and more vibrant than anything he had known.
Then, greed struck.
The stone's glow brightened as more qi surged out, flooding into him. Wen Liang's chest tightened. The channels of his body ached, strained as if too narrow for the river being forced through them.
His breath faltered. His heart raced. The energy refused to slow.
Too much!
Sweat streamed down his brow. He could almost hear the warnings of the manuals—rash absorption could tear the meridians, scatter qi, even cripple cultivation altogether.
But panic was a familiar enemy. He had seen it many times, across countless therapy sessions back on Earth. He recognized the racing heart, the spiral of fear feeding itself.
And so, he did what he always taught others: he returned to his breath.
In. Hold. Out.
Each breath gave shape to the wild energy. Each exhale loosened its chaos.
Minutes stretched into hours. The torrent became a tide, the tide a stream. The qi, once threatening to devour him, bent beneath his steady rhythm.
Then, with a thunderous pulse that rang only in his own body, the flood settled into stillness. His dantian glowed warm and steady, like a hearthfire finally tamed.
A strange lightness filled his limbs. His senses sharpened. Even the flicker of the lamp seemed brighter, clearer.
He opened his eyes. The stone in his hand was dull, spent of its glow.
And within, he felt it—his cultivation had crossed the threshold.
Qi Refining, Second Layer.
Wen Liang leaned back against the wall, chest heaving, heart still trembling with aftershocks.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I almost ruined myself on the first step forward. What kind of immortal master am I, who nearly bursts like an overfilled wineskin?"
Yet as he looked at his hands, he could not deny the strength now coursing through them. His breath was deeper, his spirit steadier. His body, once fragile in this new world, had taken its first true stride toward power.
"Finally," he whispered. "I step into the realm of cultivators… not as a fraud, but in truth."
Morning came, and with it, a knock at his door.
It was not hurried or desperate, like the knocks of those seeking healing. It was firm, deliberate, and heavy with the weight of authority.
When Wen Liang opened it, he found an elderly man in dark robes standing there. His hair was streaked with silver, his gaze sharp and steady. Even without words, Wen Liang could feel the man's cultivation pressing faintly against the room like a tide.
The elder bowed with surprising courtesy. "This old man greets Immortal Master Wen."
Wen Liang blinked, caught off guard. "Elder, you mistake me. I am no sect master—"
The man raised a hand, silencing him. "My name is Elder Zhao, of the Cloud Serpent Sect. I come not to question, but to request."
His eyes softened slightly. "The disciple you aided days past—my niece. She wrote to me of your guidance. Her heart has calmed. Her qi flows once more. Without your counsel, she would have wasted years in turmoil. For this, you have my gratitude."
Wen Liang's mind spun. So quickly… even elders hear of me?
Elder Zhao bowed once more, deeper this time. "Now, I must humble myself. For I, too, suffer an ailment of the heart and spirit. The pills of alchemists, the chants of monks, the arrays of talisman masters—none have helped. Only your name remains to me. Will you, Immortal Master, lend me your guidance as you did my niece?"
The room was silent, the morning sun casting a long shadow across the elder's face. Wen Liang felt his throat tighten.
He had faced restless disciples, grieving men, sleepless women. But this… an elder, bowing before him?
His heart hammered, not with qi this time, but with the sheer gravity of the path he had chosen.
Slowly, Wen Liang inclined his head. "Very well, Elder Zhao. Enter. Tell me your burden, and we will see what can be done."