---
Yan Shi sat cross-legged on the narrow wooden bed.
The mattress beneath him was thin, stuffed with straw that shifted faintly with his weight. His back was straight—not from training, but because the position felt natural. Years of watching cultivators meditate had taught his body what his fate had denied him.
His hands rested loosely on his knees, palms facing upward.
He was not cultivating.
He had never cultivated.
He was simply breathing.
In.
Out.
Slowly.
His body felt calm—too calm. The aches from the collapse had faded. The lingering pressure in his chest was gone. If not for the memory of stone grinding against stone, he might have believed nothing had happened at all.
Yan Shi closed his eyes.
He searched inward.
He looked for the thing he had felt beneath the mountain.
That strange pressure—deep, rotating, heavy yet fluid. The fleeting sensation as if something ancient had stirred inside him, brushing past his awareness before vanishing.
He waited.
Nothing answered.
There was no heat beneath his ribs. No hidden current. No echo.
His chest felt hollow. Empty. Exactly as it always had.
"…Nothing," he whispered.
If it had been real, there should have been a trace. Pain. Fatigue. Even lingering dizziness. But his body was silent.
For a moment, doubt crept in.
Perhaps it had been the medicine. Some strong herb the physician used to stabilize his injuries—something that dulled his senses or confused his mind.
But Yan Shi dismissed the thought quickly.
Even the strongest medicine could not fabricate something he had never felt before.
He lowered his gaze, breathing steadily.
If it was not inside him…
Then—
Yan Shi hesitated.
Then he turned his awareness outward.
Not to his body.
But to the space around it.
Qi.
He had never attempted this before. There had never been a reason to.
He remembered words he had overheard countless times—disciples speaking idly, elders lecturing children who would never walk the path:
Qi fills Heaven and Earth.
The world breathes.
Yan Shi closed his eyes again.
This time, he did not search within.
He listened.
At first—nothing.
Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp. The distant groan of the mountain settling. His own heartbeat, slow and steady.
Then—
Something changed.
Not sound.
Not sight.
A presence.
Thin. Fragile. Almost imperceptible.
Yan Shi's breathing stilled.
The air felt… closer.
Not pressing against him. Not moving.
Just there.
Like standing in a mist too fine to see, only noticeable when it brushed against bare skin.
"Qi…" Yan Shi murmured.
The sensation did not come from his meridians. It did not rise from his dantian—because he had none capable of response.
It reached him.
From outside.
From the room. From the mountain. From the world itself.
It brushed faintly against his awareness, hesitant and distant, as if uncertain whether it should exist for him at all.
Yan Shi's eyes snapped open.
His heart began to pound—not with excitement, but disbelief.
"This… how is this possible?"
His fingers curled against his knees.
He could feel it.
Not strongly. Not clearly.
But undeniably.
Qi.
"Didn't the elders say…" he muttered.
The memory surfaced without warning.
---
The Immortal Gathering
The stone platform had been wide and ancient, its surface carved with faded formation lines long since stripped of function. Hundreds of youths stood below it, arranged in uneven rows.
Yan Shi stood among them.
He remembered the heat. The way sunlight reflected off pale robes and polished stone. The smell of incense barely masking dust. The murmurs of anticipation. A faint metallic tang from ceremonial bells echoing through the courtyard.
Ahead of them, a raised stone stage held several figures seated behind a slab of black rock.
Elders.
True sect elders.
Their robes were heavy, embroidered with symbols Yan Shi could not comprehend. Their expressions were calm, distant—utterly indifferent.
To them, this gathering was routine.
A man in his mid-thirties stood at the front.
He was not old, yet authority clung to him. His cultivation was not overwhelming, but no one questioned him. His face was plain. His voice steady and unyielding.
"This gathering," the elder said, "exists to determine who among you may step onto the path of cultivation."
The murmurs died.
Yan Shi remembered clutching his sleeve unconsciously.
"Cultivation," the elder continued, "is not effort. It is not will. It is not perseverance."
His gaze swept across the crowd.
"It is foundation."
He raised his hand.
"Spiritual roots."
A ripple spread through the youths.
"Spiritual roots are not blessings," the elder said. "Nor are they talent."
"They are bridges."
The word fell heavily.
"A bridge between your body and the Qi of Heaven and Earth."
Without them, Qi could not be sensed. Meridians could not expand. Breath refinement was impossible. Qi would exist everywhere—yet remain unreachable.
"Without spiritual roots," the elder said clearly, "there is no path in the cultivation world."
The sentence was absolute.
He continued calmly.
"There exist three major spiritual root systems, and more than a dozen recognized sub-types."
A disciple stepped forward, holding a wide, polished mirror that shimmered faintly.
"This is a Root Reflection Mirror," the elder said. "It reveals resonance."
He raised a finger.
"First—Heavenly Qi Roots."
"A single elemental root aligned purely with Heaven. Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, or Earth."
"These roots resonate cleanly with Qi. Sensing is natural. Absorption is efficient. Growth is stable."
"Most favored by sects."
Some youths straightened.
"Second—Mutated Qi Roots."
"Two or three elemental alignments. A mixture of Heavenly and Earthly resonance."
"These roots can sense Qi. They can draw Qi. Cultivation is possible."
His gaze sharpened.
"But progress is slower. Bottlenecks are harsher."
He paused.
"If one possesses four elemental roots," he added, "Qi may still be sensed—but the bridge cannot support advancement beyond Qi Condensation."
"Third—Earth Qi Roots."
The atmosphere cooled.
"Only one root," he said. "But not pure."
"An Earth-Locked Five-Element Celestial Root."
"These roots are sealed. Locked by imbalance."
"They do not resonate."
"They cannot sense Qi."
"They cannot draw Qi."
"Even awareness of Qi is impossible."
Silence pressed down.
"Considered discarded in the Celestial Realm," the elder continued. "With sufficient resources, one may cultivate until late Qi stages."
"In the lower realm, such resources do not exist."
"To force the bridge open would require Qi Condensation Pills refined from millennia-old herbs."
"They do not exist here."
Someone swallowed audibly.
The elder gestured.
"Begin."
One by one, youths stepped forward. Light flared. Names were recorded.
When Yan Shi placed his palm on the mirror—
Nothing happened.
The surface remained dull.
The elder glanced once.
"You possess an Earth-Locked Five-Element Celestial Root," he said.
"A discarded root."
Yan Shi stepped down.
Calm.
He remembered thinking, with strange clarity:
Then it is better not to have one at all.
---
Yan Shi's consciousness returned.
The room was silent.
The Qi around him still lingered—faint, hesitant.
"How…" he whispered.
"If my root is locked…"
Then how was he sensing Qi now?
The contradiction pressed heavily against his chest.
Then another thought formed.
Careful. Dangerous.
If sensing was possible…
Then perhaps drawing was not entirely impossible either.
"Qi Condensation Pills…" Yan Shi murmured.
Low-grade pills were crude. Wasteful.
But they carried momentum.
Enough to shove Qi into a body that could not reach for it on its own.
His gaze fell to the small pouch beside his bed.
Inside were spirit stones. Few. All low-grade. Earned slowly from salvaging decayed herbs others discarded.
Not enough.
But maybe enough to buy one.
"I'll go tomorrow," Yan Shi decided quietly.
Even if it was foolish.
Even if it failed.
Only cultivation could give him dignity.
Even Qi Level One…
Would be enough.
The oil lamp flickered.
Yan Shi remained seated, cross-legged.
The bridge should not exist.
But tomorrow—
He would test it.