I was seven when I stopped pretending this body would adapt on its own.
By then, I understood the Middle World's cultivation well enough to see the pattern repeating itself. Qi entered easily. Too easily. It brushed against me like water against stone—present, persistent, and utterly unwilling to stay.
Meridians tried to form.
They always failed.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
They simply… collapsed.
The system tracked every attempt with clinical precision.
[Observation: Energy rejection consistent across all standard frameworks.]
[Conclusion: Host physiology incompatible with circulatory cultivation models.]
I agreed.
That was why I chose to stop following models that weren't built for me.
I waited until night.
Blackstone Hold slept uneasily after sunset. Monsters prowled beyond the walls, their distant roars a reminder that this world demanded strength, not excuses.
I sat cross-legged in the small stone room my parents had given me, hands resting on my knees, breathing slow and deliberate.
No arrays.
No pills.
No external support.
If this failed, it would fail honestly.
I reached inward.
Not toward qi—but toward the boundary where my spirit pressed against flesh, where pressure accumulated without release. I had felt that boundary my entire life. A constant tension, like something unfinished.
Tonight, I acted on it.
I devoured.
A small monster core, broken and impure, dissolved within me under the system's guidance. The energy surged inward instinctively, seeking meridians that were not there.
I did not redirect it.
I did not disperse it.
I held it.
Pain followed immediately.
Not sharp. Not explosive.
Crushing.
The energy piled against my spirit like a flood against an immovable wall, compressing inward with nowhere to go. My breath hitched. My vision darkened at the edges.
The system reacted.
[Warning: Internal instability detected.]
[Recommendation: Immediate dispersal to prevent structural damage.]
"No," I whispered.
I adjusted instead.
Spirit cultivation was never about flow. It was about endurance—about letting pressure exist without breaking.
I compressed my spirit inward, forcing it to bear the weight of the energy rather than repel it.
Something inside me gave.
Not flesh.
Structure.
A faint tearing sensation rippled through my torso as something half-formed tried to exist, then failed. The pressure spiked violently, and I tasted blood.
[Critical Alert: Host framework destabilizing.]
I exhaled slowly.
Too fast.
Too crude.
The energy shattered inward, ripping apart whatever proto-channel had begun to form. The backlash slammed through my body, leaving my limbs numb and my core burning.
I collapsed forward onto the stone floor.
The system went quiet.
Not alarmed.
Watching.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time was unreliable when pain flattened perception.
Eventually, the energy dissipated on its own, leaving behind residue—thin, stubborn traces clinging to the boundary between spirit and flesh.
I pushed myself upright, coughing softly.
My hands were shaking.
But something had changed.
The pressure I had lived with since birth—constant, unresolved—felt… fractionally different. Not lessened.
Redistributed.
I closed my eyes and focused inward again.
Where before there had been only resistance, now there was a faint outline. An imprint. As though the body had briefly glimpsed a shape it was never meant to hold—and failed to forget it.
The system spoke at last.
[Update: Host survival confirmed.]
[Note: Residual structural imprint detected.]
[Probability of repeat survival under identical conditions: 41%.]
I smiled faintly.
"So it's possible," I murmured.
Not safe.
Not efficient.
But possible.
I stood slowly, wiping the blood from my lip, and retrieved another block of stone from the corner of the room. My fingers rested against its rough surface, grounding myself.
I would not rush this.
Sculpting had taught me better.
You don't force stone into shape.
You remove what doesn't belong—again and again—until what remains can endure.
This body had refused me once.
It wouldn't get the chance to do so forever.