Linfei's new life began in silence.
The clan still looked upon him as a useless burden. Meals left at his door were little more than scraps—bowls of watery porridge, wilted greens, and strips of stale flatbread meant for servants at best. His quarters, a damp wooden shack at the outskirts of the estate, were a reminder of his fallen status. Yet, for the first time in years, Linfei did not despair. The silver ring upon his finger pulsed faintly, as if whispering that the path once severed was waiting to be walked again.
If the clan wanted him forgotten, then he would rise in their blindness. His cultivation would be forged in secrecy.
At dawn, while the compound slumbered, Linfei crept outside. In the narrow clearing behind the shack, he began to push his frail body to its limits. A broken log, heavy with damp, became his makeshift weight. Stones bound with twine were lifted again and again until his arms shook uncontrollably. Sweat poured freely down his back, dripping onto the hard-packed earth. Afterwards, he ran in circles around a crooked fencepost, feet pounding until his chest felt aflame. His lungs gasped, yet each cycle taught him how to steady his breath, how to endure the fire instead of yielding to it.
When exhaustion dragged him down, he practiced his strikes—basic boxing forms from old childhood lessons that once seemed meaningless. His movements were ragged and stiff at first, but repetition honed them, little by little, until every jab, every stance felt steadier.
And at night, when the world lay still, Linfei lowered himself onto the thin mat inside his shack. Cross-legged, eyes closed, he breathed slowly, circulating Qi with patience. The ring's presence was quiet but undeniable. Each time he inhaled, the artifact seemed to resonate, coaxing the essence of Heaven and Earth into him. The once-chaotic trickle of Qi now entered with order, drawn deeper into his dantian, where it spun, refined, and strengthened him.
His body ached terribly the first two days. His muscles screamed, his joints felt as though they were tearing apart. Yet whenever he returned to his room to eat, he cooked what little he had. Wilted vegetables boiled into bitter soup, dried grains softened into bland porridge—he ate it all without complaint. Food was no longer for taste. It was fuel, nothing more. Each mouthful of hardship sharpened his determination.
On the third night, change arrived.
Linfei sat in meditation, his back straight, palms resting on his knees. His breathing slowed, the faint aura of Qi gathering about him, spiraling inward. For hours, he guided the flow, refining patiently. Suddenly, a thick surge pressed against the boundary within his core. He held his breath, forcing his will to steady.
Then, with the sharpness of ice cracking in spring, the barrier split apart. Qi flooded freely into the new space, filling his dantian with brilliance. The once-faint flow now roared like a river. Warmth spread through his bones and blood.
Linfei's eyes opened in the dark, faint light glinting within them. His body, still scarred with bruises, now thrummed with new power. He had broken through—the Second Level of Qi Refining.
For a long moment he simply sat there, fists clenched, chest rising and falling in silence. His stomach gurgled in hunger, and his meal that night would be just as tasteless as before. Yet none of it weighed upon him anymore.