The morning after his accidental tea triumph, Li Jian sat at his desk, staring at a single wooden chopstick like it owed him money.
"This is dumb," he muttered.
"It is essential," Sheng Tai declared, his glowing spirit form flickering slightly from inside the phone propped on Jian's desk. "Qi control is the root of all advanced techniques. Flying swords. Spirit threads. Healing arts. And, yes—levitating objects with your will."
"So you're saying that if I learn to levitate a chopstick, I'm halfway to becoming a flying cultivator?"
"More like… one percent of the way but it is a noble one percent."
Jian poked the chopstick. It wobbled.
"I feel like some sort of a Jedi knockoff."
"You are a cultivator," Sheng Tai corrected. "Not some robe-wearing actor swinging some light artifacts."
He sighed and closed his eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He then tried to focus on the chopstick with his mind, just as Sheng Tai had instructed: visualize the Qi like threads running through his body, down his arms, out through his fingertips.
Still nothing.
"Try again," Sheng Tai said gently. "Slow the breath. Think not of 'lifting,' but of resonating. Let the object feel your presence."
Jian tried again and this time, the chopstick vibrated slightly. Then it sprang up— And stabbed him directly in the nose.
"Agh! What the hell!"
Blood did not drip, but dignity certainly did. Sheng Tai clapped from inside the phone. "Excellent! First movement! A minor injury is a traditional sign of progress."
"That's a weird definition of success, Grandpa."
"Nonsense. My second disciple once cracked his ribs trying to lift a spiritual comb. It took him three weeks to get that far."
"…A comb?"
"A comb of destiny."
Jian groaned and dabbed his nose with tissue. "This path is so stupid."
"It is also full of wonder."
"Stupid and wonderful. Got it."
He sat back down, glared at the chopstick and tried again. Sheng Tai flickered slightly brighter as Jian readjusted his seat on the floor. "Now we begin the Spectral Pointer Method."
"Sounds fake."
"It is a foundational technique from the Cloud Mirror Sect. The idea is simple: imagine your Qi like a brushstroke—not a hammer. You do not push the chopstick. You guide it. Paint its movement into the air."
Jian picked up the chopstick and waved it like a wand. "So I'm sort of a wizard now?"
He put it down again and inhaled deeply. The chopstick sat quietly on the table, innocent as a stick could be.
"Close your eyes," Sheng Tai instructed. "Visualize your Qi as light mist—flowing from your dan tian… into your arms… through your fingertips… and into the object before you."
Jian's shoulders relaxed. He let the image form. A soft golden mist, swirling gently within him, flowing downward.
"Now, extend it like a painter's brush. Don't force it. Let it touch the chopstick."
He reached out mentally—and the chopstick wobbled.
Just once and he opened his eyes.
"Did you see that?!"
"A moment of resonance," Sheng Tai said, voice pleased. "Now again. Let's build it."
For the next thirty minutes, Jian tried.
He failed. Tried again. Failed again. Then got it to roll slightly. Then bounce. Then— Pop.
It lifted. Wobbled in mid-air for three seconds, as if struggling to remember gravity.
Then it dropped.
Jian collapsed backward on the floor with a loud wheeze. "I Did it! I Did it! I made a stick float!"
"Not float," Sheng Tai said. "You guided it through resonance."
"I lifted it with my mind!"
"Yes. You did."
For a long moment, Jian just lay there, arms spread, chest heaving. "So… I'm basically the Avatar now, right?"
"Your Qi control is at the level of a concerned squirrel. But yes. A promising squirrel."
Jian grinned. "You really know how to compliment a guy."
"Rest. Then we'll move on to dual-stick resonance training."
Jian blinked. "You mean I have to do two at once?!"
"Eventually, you must master at least five for mid-tier multitasking techniques."
"…I should've stayed in chemistry club."
"Too late. You're one sneeze away from Foundation Establishment."
By mid-afternoon, Jian had consumed half a box of tissues and all his patience. His right nostril still remembered the sting of that morning's Qi jab. So when Sheng Tai declared it was time to "advance to a combat simulation," Jian blinked twice.
"You want me to… what?"
"Engage in a duel," Sheng Tai said, pointing at a second chopstick laid out beside the first. "Against your past self. Or rather, against your memory of clumsiness."
"…So I'm fencing with sticks now?"
"Cultivation is a path of symbolic conquest. Victory over your worst instincts begins with triumph over inanimate objects."
"That sounds like a quote from a fortune cookie."
Jian took a deep breath and assumed what he assumed was a martial stance — half Tai Chi, half dramatic anime pose.
His opponent: a second wooden chopstick, balanced on a pencil cup.
"Alright," he muttered. "Bring it on, Stick 2."
He focused again. This time, he visualized both chopsticks—one as an extension of himself, the other as a trial. A test.
Golden mist, flowing like a breeze. Focus. Concentrate and breathe.
The first chopstick began to rise, slightly easier than before. It Wobble, then Lift and finally it stabilize.
The second chopstick tilted.
"Good. Now… attack!" Sheng Tai urged. Jian mentally jabbed the first stick toward the second.
The first stick whacked its wooden sibling with the elegance of a drunk hummingbird.
Both fell.
"I call that a draw," Jian mumbled.
"A spirited exchange," Sheng Tai corrected. "Next time: more intent. Less flailing."
Jian picked them both up, reset the scene, and tried again.
This time, the first chopstick twitched, shot forward—
—and missed completely.
The second chopstick wobbled once and dramatically rolled off the desk like a fallen soldier.
"Bang!" Jian whispered, then burst out laughing.
Sheng Tai chuckled faintly. "Perhaps there is merit in your mortal humor."
"See? I told you memes are cultivation."
"You told me Douyi was Daoist scripture."
"Same thing."
They practiced for another half-hour. By the end, Jian could land a decent poke with 60% accuracy.
A glow had started to form beneath his palms when he concentrated—a golden pulse that flickered like candlelight.
Sheng Tai hovered above the phone, arms crossed, expression proud.
"You are beginning to channel intent."
"I'm beginning to sweat through my shirt."
"Then we end today's lesson here. Reflect. Rest. And tomorrow—dual-stick rotation!"
"Wait, that's not what I—"
Too late. The phone blinked off, and Sheng Tai vanished.
Jian stared at the chopsticks. "I just got beaten by takeout utensils."
He set them down with reverence.
"Master Chopstick," he muttered, bowing slightly. "We shall meet again."
Jian stood up slowly, arms shaking like overcooked noodles. The physical exhaustion of Qi work wasn't quite the same as gym fatigue—it was more like his bones had hummed themselves sore.
"Now what?" he asked the dimmed phone screen.
Silence.
Grandpa was definitely off meditating or sulking.
He wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. An orange. Half a leftover sandwich. Three unlabeled containers of mystery stew. And a small glass jar glowing faintly—the 'Red Ember Tonic' he'd created with chili flakes and bad judgment.
"Nope," he said, shutting the door on that abomination.
Instead, he pulled out sesame paste, honey, oats, and a banana. The same ingredients he'd used for his "Study Bites" earlier that week.
As he mashed everything together in a bowl, he whispered, "Spiritual harmony… delicious geometry…"
The paste was sticky but cooperative. He rolled it into five lumpy spheres and dusted them with cocoa powder.
Each orb pulsed faintly with warmth.
He popped one into his mouth.
Sweet. Nutty. A hint of something more—like a spark behind the tongue. His Qi stirred lazily in response.
Jian raised an eyebrow. "Are snacks… cultivation fuel?"
The phone buzzed.
Sheng Tai reappeared faintly. "You're eating spiritual enhancement pills."
"They're just energy balls!"
"They possess mild resonant signatures. You are refining through digestion."
"So you're saying I've achieved Enlightenment… by snacking."
"I am saying the road to Dao is rarely straight. Sometimes, it is round and coated in sesame."
Jian stared at the remaining orbs. "We need to market these."
"No."
"We'll call them—Qi Balls!"
"Absolutely not."
He offered one toward the phone screen. "Come on, Grandpa. Just imagine it… 'Now available in matcha and mango.'"
Sheng Tai groaned. "You are not ready for the business realm."
"I wasn't ready for the cultivation realm either, and yet here we are."
They sat in peaceful silence for a moment—one ghostly and one chewing.
Jian felt his limbs relax. His breath flowed easier. The chopstick duel already felt like a fever dream. But the light warmth in his belly? That was real.
Qi wasn't just sparks and glowing orbs.
It was a rhythm. A connection.
And sometimes, a really good snack.