At eighteen, two robed figures appeared at the village gate. Clouds embroidered their cuffs; wind carried the sharp scent of fresh herbs off their robes. The lead Taoist—a middle-aged man with pale gold flickers in his pupils—studied Alan. "This lad's spiritual root is muddled, but his flesh is tempered to rare purity. A gem to polish."
Following them up Zhongnan Mountain, mist coiled thicker, swallowing the path. At a cliff, the Taoist muttered a spell, fingers weaving seals—and the fog split like a curtain. Alan sucked in a breath. The gate wasn't brick or stone, but an arch carved by nature into the cliff, crevices choked with verdant moss, vines dripping pale purple flowers. Petals fell, dissolving into glowing motes.
"Inhale," the Taoist said. Alan obeyed, and coolness flooded his lungs—like drinking iced jade dew, melting ten years of cultivation fatigue. He heard his blood rush, meridians once knotted now unfurling, as if the air itself nourished them.
Beyond lay a wonderland: palaces with overhanging eaves floated mid-mountain; stone lanterns flared with eternal azure fire; white cranes glided overhead, cries clear as chimes. A smiling Taoist approached, jade pendant chiming: "I'm Wang, your guide. At Clear Void Temple, sloth is death."
Life here was stricter than the village. Days: swordplay and horse stance with outer disciples. Nights: he snuck into his courtyard to practice The Remaining Sun Manual. He hid its uniqueness, but as power deepened, the qi and blood surges of breakthroughs grew harder to mask.
On a full moon, Alan meditated in the yard. When The Remaining Sun Manual hit its 108th cycle, a "crack" echoed in his body—an invisible barrier shattering. Power erupted from his belly, roaring through meridians, pain sharper than ever, like a red-hot iron churning in his veins.
He bit his tongue to muffle a scream, sweat soaking his robe, blood oozing between his fingers to stain the bluestone. Then: a soft rustle. Alan's eyes flew open—Taoist Wang stood on the wall, moonlight turning his usual smile stiff as stone.
"Diligent at midnight, I see." Wang landed lightly, gaze flicking to his bleeding fingers. "Odd qi surge just now. Did you bungle your practice?"
Alan's heart slammed. He reined in his breath: "This disciple is dull. Misdirected qi in basics."
Wang stepped closer, hand shooting to his shoulder. "Let me check." The second their palms met, gentle spiritual power probed him, searching. Alan gritted through pain, masking The Remaining Sun Manual's aura as plain breathing technique.
Wang's fingers lingered, then he smiled. "Just misdirected. These calming pills—rest well." The jade bottle held three pills, their fragrance sweet, almost cloying.