Monday morning arrived like a slap with no warning.
Jian barely had time to tie his shoes before bolting out the door, toast hanging from his mouth like an anime protagonist. In one hand, he clutched his schoolbag. In the other, he cradled a repurposed bento box filled with what he and Sheng Tai were calling "Qi-reactive energy bites."
"Are you sure these work?" Jian asked, jogging toward the bus stop.
"They are infused with focused intent," Sheng Tai said from the phone speaker. "Sesame for grounded Qi. Honey for emotional harmonics. Oats for digestive stabilization."
"And peanut butter?"
"Sticky Qi. Makes things… adhere."
"To what?"
"Understanding. Memory. Possibly your teeth."
The bus ride to school was uneventful, except for Jian trying to suppress the scent of spiritual sesame balls wafting from his bag. The moment he walked into class, his seatmate Wei Liang sniffed the air like a hound.
"Yo," Wei whispered, eyes gleaming. "You brought more of that magic snack?"
"I mean, technically it's alchemically enhanced—"
Wei reached into Jian's bag without waiting. "Bless your soul."
As class began, Jian passed out a few small bites. He'd made them the night before, carefully mixing sesame, honey, oats, a pinch of cinnamon, and a dusting of "mild Qi herbs" Sheng Tai assured him were legal. Probably.
By mid-morning, five classmates had reported sudden bursts of concentration.
Two solved math problems they hadn't even studied for.
One drew a perfect freehand circle.
Another finally beat the level on her puzzle app she'd been stuck on for three weeks.
And one kid just stared at the wall, nodding slowly, whispering, "Everything is connected."
Jian felt pride blooming in his chest.
"Your snacks are disrupting the academic bell curve," Wei Liang said, grinning.
Even the teacher noticed. Mr. Xu peered over his glasses during third period.
"Li Jian. Why is your desk the epicenter of unnatural productivity?"
Jian froze. "Uh. Whole grains?"
Mr. Xu raised an eyebrow, then looked around at the unusually focused class. He said nothing more, but Jian noticed him scribbling something in his notebook. Possibly "Investigate mysterious granola dealer."
Sheng Tai whispered through the earbud, "You must refine consistency. The dosage is erratic."
Jian whispered back, "I used a spoon!"
"A spoon is not a spiritual measuring device!"
"Next time I'll use your ghost monocle."
"I will haunt your microwave."
By lunchtime, Jian's reputation had exploded.
Several students were hovering near his desk, pretending to stretch or borrow pens, only to ask in hushed tones, "Hey, got any more of that focus stuff?"
Wei Liang started referring to him as "The Cultivator Chef." One girl slipped him a note shaped like a dumpling with the words: 'Your snacks changed my life. Pls sell?'
"I think I've created a Qi-dependency," Jian muttered to Sheng Tai while hiding the bento box under his hoodie.
"Good. You've discovered market demand," the ghost replied, sounding entirely too smug. "The ancient path of Pill Distribution was often… lucrative."
"I'm not dealing pills!"
"Not yet."
To escape the snack paparazzi, Jian ducked into the library. He settled at a corner table, unwrapped a sesame ball, and began chewing slowly — part snack, part meditation.
That's when a shadow fell over him.
He looked up. It was Mei Lin — top student, president of three clubs, terrifyingly organized.
"You're Li Jian?"
"…That depends. Are you with the authorities?"
"I'm with the school alchemy club."
Jian blinked. "We have one of those?"
"We do now."
She dropped a folded flyer on the table. It had a cauldron drawn in highlighter and the words 'Alchemy Club – Launching Today!'
"Word is, your snacks cause minor enlightenment and temporary academic excellence. That's enough to qualify as mystical artifact production."
Jian stared. "I made them in my kitchen."
"Then you're exactly what we need. You'll do a demo."
"What kind of demo?"
"Something that won't violate health codes."
Sheng Tai whispered in his ear, "Agree. This is your first step to legitimacy."
Jian muttered back, "I'm not opening a spiritual Costco."
"Yet."
Mei Lin clapped her hands. "Great. Club meets after class. You're the guest alchemist."
Before he could protest, she turned and walked off like a storm wearing sensible shoes.
Jian slumped back in his chair. "I was just trying to survive math class…"
Sheng Tai grinned from the phone. "Now the realm expands. Embrace it, disciple."
The school's old science lab was dusty, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of vinegar and stress. A whiteboard at the front now read in bold marker: "Alchemy Club – First Gathering!"
Jian stood near a long table filled with measuring spoons, mixing bowls, and the remaining Qi snacks he'd hidden in his backpack. Sheng Tai hovered just above the smartphone camera lens, frowning like a strict supervisor at a potion brewing contest.
Mei Lin adjusted her headband like it was battle armor. "Welcome, initiates. Today, we witness spiritual snack alchemy."
Eight students sat in plastic chairs, some skeptical, some thrilled, and one who already had a notepad titled Qi-Infused Meal Prep Ideas.
Jian cleared his throat. "So, um. Hi. I'm not a real cultivator, but my rice cooker has exploded three times and I may have invented a spiritual granola ball by accident."
Applause.
Wei Liang whispered, "They love you, bro. You're like a monk crossed with a lunch lady."
Jian began the demo.
He mixed sesame, honey, cinnamon, and a tiny pinch of ginseng extract. Sheng Tai advised quietly from the phone, occasionally zapping the screen to adjust the mixture with his Qi projection. The class oohed and ahhed when the mixture shimmered faintly gold.
Jian rolled the dough into small orbs, then passed them around on a paper plate.
• The first girl to try it blinked rapidly. "I feel like… I understand physics now."
• A guy chewed thoughtfully. "I just remembered my grandma's birthday."
• Another nodded slowly. "I can hear the ceiling humming. Is that bad?"
"No," Jian said, "that's probably the fluorescent lights… or your Qi."
Sheng Tai whispered, "Tell them to ground themselves."
"Ground your feet," Jian added. "Pretend you're a tree. A snack tree."
It worked surprisingly well. By the end of the hour:
• Three students had mild insights,
• One kid burst into tears after writing a poem about soup,
• Mei Lin declared it a "historic success."
"You're officially our alchemy advisor," she said, handing Jian a handmade badge shaped like a potion bottle.
Jian blinked. "I didn't sign up—"
"It's laminated."
"…Fine."
As they cleaned up, Sheng Tai floated beside the trash can. "Today, you shared cultivation. You sparked harmony. And you didn't burn anything."
Jian smiled. "Guess I'm leveling up."
"Indeed. Now we tackle spiritual sigils drawn with sandwich sauce."
"What."
"You'll see."
By the time Jian got home, the high of snack-based spiritual teaching had worn off — and so had the last of the Qi-enhanced energy.
He collapsed onto the couch. His mom peeked in from the kitchen.
"Did you explode anything today?"
"Just expectations."
"That's nice, dear."
As soon as she left, Sheng Tai floated out of the phone like steam from a kettle.
"You overexerted your spiritual core."
"I made snacks."
"For twelve people. While maintaining Qi control, public presentation, and resisting the temptation to eat half of it yourself. Impressive restraint."
Jian groaned. "I feel like I've been flattened by an enlightenment truck."
"You need recovery tea."
Jian staggered into the kitchen and brewed a simple blend — green tea, mint, and a hint of orange peel. As the aroma filled the room, he felt some of his spiritual fatigue lift.
Then he remembered something.
He gasped. "I forgot my math homework."
Sheng Tai blinked. "You made six students achieve spiritual resonance and one cry over soup. Surely that counts for something."
"It won't count for Mr. Xu."
Panic surged. Jian opened his notebook and stared at the empty assignment page like it was a demon formation array.
"Think fast," he said. "How do cultivators do speed memory?"
Sheng Tai snapped his fingers. "Spirit Compression Recall Technique. A method of locking short-term knowledge through focused breath and Qi loops."
"Sounds complicated."
"It is. Let's try it anyway."
They began. Jian sat cross-legged, holding his pencil like a talisman. Sheng Tai guided his breathing.
"Inhale. Visualize numbers as flowing streams. Exhale. Anchor them with intent."
Jian scribbled furiously. The numbers made sense. Then didn't. Then did again.
By the end of an intense 40 minutes, he had a completed assignment, slightly shaky hands, and a nosebleed.
"That was… horrifying," he muttered.
Sheng Tai looked pleased. "You now know thirty percent more algebra than you did yesterday."
Jian grinned weakly. "What if I added spirit snacks to study sessions?"
"They must be used responsibly," Sheng Tai warned. "Even power must rest."
"I'll make a low-dose dumpling. Something mellow."
He scribbled the idea onto a post-it note: Calm Snack for Crisis Math.
As he finally climbed into bed, exhausted but weirdly proud, his phone buzzed.
Wei Liang had sent a selfie holding one of the leftover sesame balls and a thumbs-up, with the caption:
"Dude, I saw the matrix."
Jian laughed.
"Night, Grandpa."
"Goodnight, Disciple."
And with that, he slept — dreaming of dumplings, golden Qi, and sigils shaped like smiley faces.