The problem was not ignorance.
That became clear to him within the first three days.
If the issue had been a lack of knowledge, it could have been solved through accumulation. Manuals could be acquired. Observations could be refined. Even forbidden techniques left traces in rumor and distortion. But this was not a matter of missing information.
It was rejection.
Qi did not circulate for him because it did not recognize him as a valid container.
That was the verdict of the test stone, and the verdict held.
Still, he did not abandon the question.
Qi existed. That much was undeniable. It flowed through the world, condensed around cultivators, saturated certain locations, and reacted to materials in predictable ways. He could feel it faintly when working metal, a pressure difference rather than a presence, like heat felt through gloves.
If qi could not be guided internally, then the problem lay in the method, not the substance.
That was how craftsmen approached failure.
Not by asking why not, but by asking under what conditions.
He began with restraint.
The first experiments were theoretical, carried out through observation rather than action. He dismantled old cultivation diagrams and redrew them without spiritual terminology, translating meridians into structural pathways and circulation cycles into mechanical flow. Qi guiding manuals assumed compatibility. He removed that assumption.
What remained was pressure management.
He tested external qi interaction indirectly—placing materials with known affinity near his body during meditation. He measured sensation, reaction time, physical response. Nothing entered him. But something pressed.
The pressure increased when he focused.
That was enough to justify escalation.
He prepared the workshop carefully.
Every surface was cleaned. Tools were arranged with unnecessary precision. He barred the door and sealed cracks with clay and resin, not to contain qi, but to isolate variables. If something went wrong, he wanted to know exactly where it had gone wrong.
The materials he selected were mundane by cultivation standards.
Iron filings. Crude spirit ash diluted far below potency. Bone fragments scavenged from animal remains. Nothing that would attract attention. Nothing that could plausibly succeed.
He did not need success.
He needed response.
He etched shallow channels into the floor, forming a simple circulation pattern around a central point where he would sit. Not a formation—formations required stability and external energy control. This was closer to a flow diagram, designed to guide pressure rather than power.
When he sat down, he did not rush.
He slowed his breathing until his pulse steadied. Body Tempering circulation engaged naturally, reinforcing muscles and organs that had been honed to their limit. His body was ready. It had reached the peak long ago. It had nowhere else to go.
That was the point.
He introduced the spirit ash first.
The air thickened slightly. Not visibly, not dramatically. A subtle resistance formed, like humidity before a storm. His skin prickled. His breathing remained even.
Then he focused.
He did not try to draw qi inward.
Instead, he attempted to anchor it.
The pressure increased.
The channels etched into the floor responded faintly, not glowing, not activating, but aligning. The sensation in his chest sharpened, the familiar tightening intensifying into something closer to compression.
His body reacted instinctively, attempting to circulate qi through established meridians.
It failed.
The rejection was immediate.
Pain flared across his abdomen, sharp and localized. He clenched his jaw but did not stop. This was expected. Rejection created friction. Friction produced heat. Heat revealed structural weakness.
He adjusted.
He shifted focus downward, redirecting the pressure toward his legs, where the meridian density was lower and the musculature denser. If qi could not circulate, perhaps it could be distributed.
The pressure spiked.
Something went wrong.
It did not explode. There was no dramatic backlash. No external phenomenon. The failure was internal and precise.
A tearing sensation ripped through his left thigh.
Not muscle. Not bone.
Something deeper.
His breath hitched once. He tasted iron. The pressure collapsed unevenly, rushing outward without direction. The etched channels cracked as the spirit ash ignited briefly, then burned out.
He fell forward.
His left leg did not respond.
For several seconds, he did not move.
Pain arrived late, spreading slowly from his hip downward, accompanied by numbness rather than agony. That worried him more than screaming would have. He pressed his palm against the floor and tried to push himself upright.
His right leg obeyed.
His left dragged.
He sat there, breathing steadily, cataloging sensation with forced detachment. The limb was not dead. He could feel contact. Temperature. Pressure. But when he tried to contract the muscles beyond a certain point, nothing happened.
Half function.
He confirmed it methodically.
Flexion at the knee was delayed and weak. Weight-bearing caused instability. Fine control was gone. Whatever internal pathway had ruptured, it had not regenerated.
He had damaged something foundational.
Hours later, after cleaning the workshop and destroying the remnants of the experiment, he lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. The pain settled into a dull, constant presence. He did not seek a healer.
There was nothing a healer could do.
This was not illness. It was structural damage caused by forcing an incompatible process.
The world had not punished him.
It had simply allowed him to hurt himself.
Over the following days, he adapted.
Movement became slower. He shifted weight carefully. He adjusted his stance at the forge, redistributing load to compensate. His left leg remained usable, but unreliable. Prolonged exertion caused tremors. Fine balance was permanently compromised.
No miracle occurred.
Qi did not suddenly respond out of pity.
The failure remained a failure.
He returned to work.
Weapons still needed to be forged. Coins still needed to be earned. Survival did not pause for philosophical reflection. The city did not notice his limp. Poverty had taught him how invisible impairment could be.
At night, when he sat alone, the pressure behind his eyes returned, unchanged.
The experiment had failed.
The conclusion was unavoidable.
Qi Guiding could not be forced through internal circulation, no matter how the process was reframed. The body rejected it not because of insufficient effort, but because it lacked the necessary compatibility.
Aptitude was not a gate.
It was a filter.
The loss of function in his leg was not a warning. It was evidence.
He had approached the problem incorrectly.
Qi did not want to be guided through him.
That realization did not bring relief.
It brought clarity.
Creation had never relied on direct use.
Weapons did not become lethal because the smith wielded them.
Artifacts did not function because their creator could activate them personally.
They worked because design allowed others—or the world itself—to complete the process.
He stopped trying to advance.
Not out of surrender.
Out of recalibration.
If qi could not be guided internally, then advancement would not occur internally. If heaven denied him circulation, then heaven itself would become a material rather than a destination.
The loss of his leg's function was acceptable.
It was the price of eliminating a false path.
That night, as he extinguished the forge and leaned on the wall to steady himself, he did not curse his body or the heavens.
He adjusted his plans.