The hospital stay was a blur of sterile white walls, beeping monitors, and nurses who looked at Li Wei with a mix of pity and exasperation. The paramedics had diagnosed severe dehydration and malnutrition, blaming his three-day fasting ritual for his collapse. They lectured him about the dangers of "starving himself in the wilderness," but Li Wei barely listened. To him, the ordeal was no failure—it was a triumph, a step closer to immortality. The warmth in his dantian, faint but persistent even now, was proof that the "Forbidden Fasting Technique" had purified his qi, just as the scroll promised. As soon as he was discharged, clutching his precious scroll and tattered backpack, he returned to Mount Tai, determined to continue his cultivation.
Back in his clearing, Li Wei felt a new sense of isolation. The forest, once a sacred refuge, now seemed vast and indifferent. Old Chen's grounded wisdom in the village had been helpful, but it wasn't enough—the farmer lacked the spiritual insight Li Wei craved. The scroll spoke of "allies on the path," fellow cultivators who could share knowledge and bolster one's resolve. Li Wei, alone on the mountain, realized he needed others who believed as he did, who saw the scroll not as a relic but as a blueprint for transcendence.
His smartphone, barely used since he'd left Beijing, became his lifeline. Charging it at a small shop in the village—where Old Chen gave him a skeptical glance—he connected to the internet and dove into the world of online cultivation forums. These were chaotic digital spaces, filled with enthusiasts, skeptics, and self-proclaimed masters. Most posts were fanciful, discussing qi manipulation or mythical beasts with the fervor of comic book fans, but Li Wei sifted through them, searching for kindred spirits. He found a thread titled "True Path Seekers: Ancient Texts and Modern Practice," where users claimed to possess authentic cultivation manuals. Heart pounding, he posted a carefully worded message, describing his scroll and his experiences without revealing too much. "Seeking fellow cultivators to form a sect," he wrote. "Must be dedicated to the Dao."
Responses trickled in, some dismissive, others curious. A user named "JadeSeeker88" replied first, claiming to have a Ming Dynasty text on qi circulation. Another, "MoonlitCrane," shared photos of a meditation setup eerily similar to Li Wei's altar. Over the next few days, Li Wei exchanged messages with a small group of users who seemed serious, not just role-playing. There was JadeSeeker88, a college student in Shanghai obsessed with alchemy; MoonlitCrane, a quiet woman from Sichuan who spoke of "feeling the earth's pulse"; and "IronWill," a former martial artist who claimed to have sensed qi during sparring. They were scattered across China, but the internet bridged the distance, and Li Wei felt a spark of hope. These were his allies, his nascent sect.
Their first virtual meeting, held via a shaky video call, was both exhilarating and chaotic. Li Wei sat cross-legged in his clearing, his phone propped against a rock, the scroll open beside him for reference. JadeSeeker88, whose real name was Zhang Wei, appeared on screen in a cluttered dorm room, waving a yellowed book he swore was a family heirloom. MoonlitCrane, a soft-spoken woman named Liu Mei, joined from a rooftop garden, her face lit by moonlight. IronWill, a gruff man named Wang Hao, logged in from a gym, his biceps flexing as he adjusted his camera. They introduced themselves, sharing stories of their own "awakenings"—moments when they'd felt something beyond the ordinary, whether through meditation, martial arts, or, in Zhang Wei's case, a questionable herbal brew.
Li Wei took the lead, describing his experiences: the qi sensations, the storm tribulation, the inner demon, and the forbidden fasting. He held up the scroll, angling it to show the ancient script. "This is our foundation," he said, his voice steady with conviction. "We can share techniques, refine our methods, and ascend together." The others nodded, their eyes bright with enthusiasm, though Wang Hao muttered about needing "practical results" over "fancy words."
They agreed to form a "sect," albeit a virtual one, naming it the Order of the Jade Dawn after a line in Li Wei's scroll about "dawn's light purifying the soul." Their goal was simple: to support each other's cultivation, exchange knowledge, and validate their progress. Zhang Wei suggested pooling resources to decode their texts, while Liu Mei offered to research herbal concoctions based on her family's traditional medicine background. Wang Hao, ever the skeptic, insisted they test their techniques in real-world conditions, like sparring or enduring physical challenges.
The first meeting stretched late into the night, ideas flying as fast as the spotty internet allowed. Li Wei proposed weekly calls to share progress, and they created a private chat group to post photos, videos, and translations of their texts. Zhang Wei shared a grainy scan of his Ming Dynasty book, which described a "Fire Heart Meditation" that Li Wei eagerly noted down. Liu Mei uploaded a video of her chanting under the stars, her voice hauntingly similar to the scroll's incantations. Wang Hao, true to form, sent a clip of himself punching a sandbag, claiming it "channeled his qi into strength."
As the call ended, Li Wei felt a surge of camaraderie he hadn't known since leaving Beijing. These were no ordinary allies—they were cultivators, bound by a shared dream of immortality. Back in his clearing, he scribbled in his notebook: "Order of the Jade Dawn formed. Allies found. Path shared." The moon hung low over Mount Tai, its light reflecting off his altar's stones. For the first time, Li Wei didn't feel alone. The scroll's promise of allies had come true, and with the sect behind him, he was ready to face the next trial, whatever it might be.