If cultivation was a path paved with lighting and blood, then living as a mortal was a road made entirely of nails.
My first week of "training" nearly killed me.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
Ling Yang's body was worse than I had initially assessed. His bones were light, almost brittle, his mucles thin and poorly developed. Years of malnutrtion had left deep scars, weak digestion, shallow breathing, an unstable heartbeat. Even standing upright for too long caused black spots to bloom at the edges of my vision.
On the third morning, I tried to jog.
Three steps later, my legs buckled.
I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from my lung. I lay there gasping, chest burning as if I had inhaled fire. My fingers trembled uncontrollably, refusing to obey.
I laughed weakly.
"So this is the price of mortality."
In my past life, I refined bodies capable of shattering mountains. I endured tribulations that erased entire vlleys. Yet now, a short burst of movement was enough to send me sprawling like a borken puppet.
But i did not stop.
I adjusted.
Each day, I rose before dawn and began with breathing, slow, deliberate inhalations, expanding my lungs bit by bit. I used an ancient mortal breathing rhythem, one forgotten by cultivators because it was "inefficient." Inefficient for qi, perhaps. Perfect for survival.
Then came movement.
Stretching joints. Rotating shoulders. Aligning the spine.
Every action was controlled, restrained, humiliatingly slow.
Sweat soaked my clothes within minutes. My heart pounded dangeroulsy fast, forcing frequent pasues. Some days, my body rebelled entirely, collapsing into fever by nightfall. I endured shills that rattled my teeth, followed by heat so intense I thought my skin would blisrter.
There were moments, brief, shameful moments, when I wondered if I would die before accomplising anything at all.
But then I remembered the Dao's words.
Live.
So I did.
The villagers watched.
At first with curiosity, then confusion, then quiet concerns.
Ling Yang had always been sickly, content to fade into the background. Now, suddenly, he was outside every morning, walking slow circles around the village, stopping to breath, leaning agaisnt trees rising again.
"Why bother?" I heard someone mutter once. 'What body won't last."
Perhaps they were right.
But I was not training to become strong.
I was not training to become strong.
I was training to exist.
On the nineteenth day, my body finally adapted enough that I could complete a full circuit without collapsing, my kegs still trembled, my chest still ached, but I remained standing.
That was the morning I noticed him.
A boy stood near the well, pretending no to stare.
He was young, sixteen, perhaps, and tall for his age. His posture was relaxed, yet balanced, his breathing steady. His hands were rough with labor, but his eyes were sharp observant.
More importantly.
I felt it.
A faint resonace brushed against my senses, like a quiet echo in still water.
Spiritual roos.
Hidden.
Deliberately.
Interesting.
I finished my walk and sat beneath a treaa, letting my heartbeat settle. The boy lingered, hesitating, then finaly approached.
"Uh... Are you okay?" He asked.
His voice was cautious, as if afraid i might break.
"I will be," I repied.
He frowned. 'You say that everyday."
"So far, i've been right."
That earned a small laugh.
"My name's Xiao." He said. "I help my uncle with the fields."
"Ling Yang."
"I know." He scratched his head. "You're kind of... Noticeable now."
I smiled faintly. "That wasn't my intention."
He glanced at my arms, my legs, my shallow breathing. "You train like someone who knows what he's doing. But your body looks like its fighting you every step."
An accurate assessment.
"You're perceptive." I said.
He shrugged. "I wacth people."
So did I.
I wacthed how Xiao stood, feet naturally aligned, weight evenly distributed. How his breathing instinctively followed a rhythm most mortals never discovered. How his gaze sharpened whenever he grew emotionally stirred, then deliberately dulled again.
A cultivator in hiding.
Or perhaps... A boy afraid of becoming one.
Or perhaps... A boy afriad of becoming one.
"You don't cultivate..." I said lightly.
Xiao stiffened.
"No." He replied too quickly. "I can't."
I met his eyes.
He held my gaze for a heartbeat, then looked away.
"Good." I said.
He blinked. "Good?"
"Yes, cultivation isn't always a blessing."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
"You're strange." He muttered.
"So I've been told."
From that day on, Xiao walked with me.
-
Our routines merged naturally.
In the mornings, he matched my pace without complaint, slowing himself deliberately so I wouldn't feel rushed. When I collapsed from exhaustion, he offered his shoulder without pity. When fever struck again, he brought warm water and stayed until my breathing steadied.
He never asked why I trained like an old master in a broken body.
I never asked wh he hid his talent.
Mutual silence formed a bond stronger than works.
Weeks passed.
My body improved.
Not dramatically, no sudden bursts of strenght, but measurably. My breathing deepened. My appetite stabilized. I could lift small sacks of grain without shaking. I even helped Xiao in the fields for shprt periods, learning the rhythm of farming once more.
Soil. Sun. Sweat.
There was Dao in all of it.
The villagers began to change too.
They ask questions.
"Why do you breathe like that?"
"Why does my back hurt less after stretching this way.?"
"Can you show my son those movements."
I showed them.
Carefully.
Nothing mystical. Nothing profound.
Just alignment. Balance. Patience.
And yet.
The land responded.
Crops near our homes grew fuller. Illness spread less frequently. Agruments faded faster, tempers cooled more easily. It was subtle enough that no one could point to a cause.
But I noticed.
Xiao noticed too.
"You are doing something." He said one evening as we rested beneath the fading sky.
"I'm living." I replied.
He snorted softly. "No, I mean... More than that."
I looked at him.
"You're buidling a place." He continued. "Not a sect. Not yet. But something like it.
I said nothing.
Because he was right.
-
The problem arrived without warming.
It was midday when the air shifted.
I felt it before I saw it, a disturbance in the natural flow, rough and intrusive. The villagers felt it too, though they lacked words for it. Comversations faltered. Animals grew restless.
Dust rose from the western road.
Fingures approached.
Five men, robes clean ad embroidered with cloud patterns. Their. Auras were unrestrained, deliberately oppressive. Qi pressure rolled outward, heavy enough to make children freeze and elders clutch their chests.
Cultivators.
Xiao stiffened beside me.
"Don't react." I murmured.
Too late,
One of them laughed loudly. "Such a weak place."
Another sniffed the air. "No sect protection, No formation."
Their leader stepped forward, eyes sweeping thr village with practiced arrogance.
'This land now falls under the authority of the Cloud River Sect," he announced. "From today onward, you will provide labor, grain, and if any are found talented youths."
Murmurs spread.
Fear bloomed.
I felt Xiao's Qi stir.
Barely.
But enough.
The cultivator's gaze snapped toward him.
Interest flared.
I stepped forward before anything else could happen.
"This is a mortal village." I said calmly. 'There is nothing here worth your time."
The cultivator looked down at me.
At my thin body.
My plain clothes.
He laughed.
"That," he said pointing at Xiao, "Says otherwise."
Xiao's fost clenched.
I felt the Dao stir.
And for the first time since becoing Ling Yang, I understood.
Living as a mortal did not mean avoiding conflict.
It meant choosing how to face it.
Slowly, I smiled.
Because the heavens were about to learn something new.
And so were these cultivators.