The golden symbol lingered in the air for a breath, then vanished — but its heat remained inside him.
Han Li sat stunned, holding the child in his arms. His heart pounded. Not just from adrenaline — but from something deeper. Alive. Stirring.
Qi.
Real. Faint, but his. And it hadn't come from chanting or breathing. It had come from emotion. Raw, overwhelming emotion.
He looked down at the boy, who was breathing now — weak, but steady.
"So that's it," Han Li thought, trembling. "This body's cultivation... it needs something different. Something real."
The fire flickered. The night deepened. And for the first time since waking in this world, Han Li didn't feel like a stranger in it.
The rising sun spilled molten light over the mountain ridges, painting the fields in gold — but none of it reached the cold pit in Han Li's belly.
He knelt shirtless on the cracked wooden floor of his hut, legs folded, sweat beading down his back. His breathing was steady. His spine straight. He had memorized the ancient manual like a holy scripture:
> "Sink your breath to the dantian. Guide the qi along the Ren and Du meridians. Let it circulate, let it root..."
He obeyed. He focused. He waited.
Nothing.
Again.
Han Li's eyelids twitched. He opened his eyes slowly, staring at the dying oil lamp and the warped ceiling overhead. His body wasn't tired — it was empty. Like trying to drink water from a well that had run dry.
> "What the hell is this…"
He grabbed the scroll, clenched it in his hands, and stared at the words again. They hadn't changed. And yet no matter how perfect his posture or how disciplined his breath, the qi didn't move.
> "Qi is in the air, in the earth, in me," he whispered, voice cracking. "So why the hell can't I feel it?"
He forced his focus inward again — toward the dantian at the base of his belly. A deep breath. A steady pull.
Suddenly, a spark — a twitch. His eyes widened.
Then, pain.
Agonizing pressure erupted across his chest and limbs like invisible chains crushing inward. His jaw locked. His body arched as if trying to escape itself. The sensation vanished just as fast, leaving him gasping on the ground, heart racing.
> "Shit..."
He knew what that was.
Blocked meridians.
Like a dam inside him had rusted shut.
Han Li sat outside the hut later that morning, shirt thrown over his shoulder, watching a trio of crows circle above the village. His fists were clenched. Dirt under his nails. Eyes bloodshot.
In his past life, failure had been a part of the routine. He had failed classes, jobs, relationships — hell, even his cholesterol levels. But here?
> This was supposed to be different. This was his second life.
But his second chance had come wrapped in the body of a man already broken by life. Lin Xun had died with nothing — no strength, no family, no legacy. And now Han Li couldn't even draw a breath of qi.
"Looks like I got reborn into a lemon," he muttered.
His ears caught whispers down the path. Two village women passing by with baskets.
> "Strange, isn't it? He was sick one day, then walking around like nothing happened…"
> "Maybe the ghost took him. Lin Xun always was cursed."
He watched them go, rage simmering low in his chest.
They weren't wrong.
He wasn't Lin Xun. He was an imposter wearing a farmer's skin. And worse — he couldn't even fake being a cultivator.
Unless…
> What if I'm going about this wrong?
That evening, Han Li returned to the hut with bruised palms and scraped knuckles. He had spent hours in the woods, punching bark, stomping acupoints, and slapping pressure zones with stinging nettles. Anything to awaken some kind of reaction. Some sensation in his frozen channels.
Still nothing.
He lit a stub of incense and stared at his hand, flexing the fingers. His bones ached. His shoulders burned. His breath came uneven.
And yet…
> Still no qi. No spark. No sign of life.
He slumped against the wall.
> "If the old ways don't work," he muttered, "I'll make new ones."
He looked to the corner of the hut, where Lin Xun's meager belongings lay: a wooden hoe, a flint knife, a worn jade bead wrapped in string. Useless to a cultivator.
But maybe not to a fighter.
> "I don't need a perfect body. I need to outthink, out-hustle, and outlast them all."
He grabbed the hoe and turned it over in his hands.
> "If my meridians won't open with breathing and meditation… maybe they'll open with war."
---
Later that night, he sat by a fire, holding a boiled rice bun and listening to the rustling leaves. His body hurt in places he didn't know existed.
Then — footsteps.
He turned.
A boy. No older than six. Shirtless, ribs showing, eyes wide. Holding a straw doll.
The child stood at the edge of the light, unmoving.
> "You okay, kid?" Han Li asked.
No response.
The child took one step forward… then collapsed.
Han Li lunged to catch him before his head hit the dirt.
"Shit!"
The boy wasn't breathing.
Han Li dropped the bun, ripped open the boy's collar, and checked for a pulse. Faint. He tilted the boy's head, sealed his lips over the child's mouth, and blew. Again. And again.
> Come on, come on...
He compressed the chest. Blew air. Waited.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Then — a cough. A gasp. The boy's eyes fluttered open.
Han Li exhaled sharply.
> "You little bastard… you scared the hell out of me."
The child blinked up at him, eyes glassy. But alive.
Then something changed.
Han Li felt it — not in his mind, but in his body. A jolt. A tingle. Like a string being pulled deep inside his core. A ripple from the base of his spine to his gut.
> "What the—"
Heat bloomed in his abdomen. Not fire. Not pain.
Qi.
Real. Flowing. Faint, but present.
His eyes widened. He clutched the boy's wrist to steady himself — and the sensation grew stronger.
It wasn't from the boy.
It was from him.
> "Saving a life... triggered it?"
His thoughts raced.
No breathing technique. No ancient chant. Just raw instinct. Desperation. Emotion.
He had broken the seal — even if just for a moment — by feeling something real.
And then it hit him.
The manual said nothing about emotion. Nothing about chaos. But maybe… the Heavenly Root Dao wasn't about control.
> Maybe it was about raw experience. Vitality. Passion. Life itself.
Han Li looked down at the boy — now asleep — and whispered, "I think I just found my way in."
He smiled, and for the first time since waking in this world, it wasn't forced.
Tomorrow, he'd try again.
And next time… he wouldn't be meditating.