The next day, Zhì Yuǎn woke before dawn.
Yù Qíng was still asleep, her hand on his chest as always. Carefully, he lifted her fingers one by one, feeling their reluctance even in slumber, and slipped out of bed. She murmured, reached for him with her hand, but soon nestled into the empty space, her lips slightly parted.
He dressed in a simple tunic and went out to the back veranda.
The sky was still dark, but a pale band of light was beginning to show on the horizon, behind the mountains. The air was cold and damp, and the bamboo grove swayed gently, as if waking as well.
He sat on the edge of the veranda, legs crossed, and closed his eyes.
The inner vision kindled at once. The Qi points were all in the same places, scattered through his body like stars, and the empty space in his chest awaited. During the night, he had absorbed some—perhaps a dozen, perhaps more—but he had not counted. Only felt.
Now, he wanted to test.
He began to breathe in the same rhythm he had discovered at the peak: slow inhalation, pause, slow exhalation, pause. The points trembled, but did not move any faster than they had the night before. It was like trying to fill a bucket with a spoon.
Perhaps the rhythm needs to be different, he thought. The sun does not rise the way the moon sets.
He opened his eyes and watched the horizon. The band of light grew, tingeing the clouds pink and orange. The sun had not yet appeared, but its arrival was already announced. And as the light increased, Zhì Yuǎn felt something shift in his perception. It was as if the air itself grew denser, more alive.
He closed his eyes again and breathed.
This time, he did not imitate the rhythm of the setting sun. He followed the rhythm of the rising sun: a growing flow, an expansion, a release. He inhaled as the light intensified, held his breath at the peak of brightness, exhaled as the sun broke the mountain line.
The Qi points exploded into motion.
It was no longer one or two drops shifting. It was a torrent. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of points began to flow toward the empty space in his chest, like water rushing into a hole in a riverbed. Heat spread through his torso, up his neck, down his arms. He felt each meridian light up, each previously empty channel now receiving a thin but steady flow.
Breathing became easy, natural, as if it had always been so. And when he finally opened his eyes, the sun was fully in the sky, and he was covered in sweat, but his body vibrated with an energy he had never felt before.
This is the Qi of the sun, he understood, without knowing how he knew. The Yang. That which warms, that which moves, that which gives life.
He stood, and the world seemed sharper. The bamboo leaves, once green, now had nuances he could not name—shades of emerald, of jade, of moss after rain. The sound of the stream was a symphony of drops and currents. And his body… his body felt lighter, as if ten years had been lifted from his shoulders.
He went inside. Yù Qíng was already awake, preparing tea. When she saw him, she frowned.
"You went out?"
"I went to watch the sunrise."
She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed.
"You are radiant. As if you'd drunk strong liquor."
He smiled.
"Perhaps I drank something better."
They sat down for tea, and while Yù Qíng sliced dried bread for breakfast, he spoke.
"Do you remember what happened yesterday at the peak?"
She looked up, her hands pausing over the cutting board.
"You almost fell off the rock. I was scared."
"It wasn't a faint. It was… an opening. As if my eyes had learned to see what was invisible before."
She put down the knife and sat across from him, elbows on the table.
"What did you see?"
"I saw my insides. Bones, muscles, veins… and something more. A light scattered throughout the body. Tiny points. And an empty space in the chest, waiting to be filled."
Yù Qíng did not laugh or doubt. Her eyes only widened a little, and she tilted her head.
"Is that… what the elders call cultivation?" she asked, her voice low. "I heard my grandfather speak of it once. He said that, long ago, there were men who could control the breath of the world."
"Perhaps." He took a sip of tea. "I don't know the name. I only know that when I breathe in the rhythm of the sun, those points move. And my body grows stronger, my senses sharper."
She reached across the table and touched his fingers.
"You are frightening me."
"There's no need to be afraid."
"I'm not afraid of you." She squeezed his fingers. "I'm afraid of what might happen if others find out. If the Yù family discovers… if anyone in the village…"
"No one will know." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Not yet."
She sighed, and something in her face softened.
"Will you teach me?"
He hesitated. His inner vision of her the previous night had shown that she too had the points of light, the empty space. But they were smaller, more scattered. Like a chamber that had never been used.
"When I know how," he answered. "I am still learning."
She nodded, and the matter was set aside, but he felt the expectation in her, a tension that did not dissipate when they resumed their routine.
---
The sun was already high when they went to the Yù house.
Yù Chéng was waiting for them in the courtyard, beside the twelve sacks of coal, now repacked and tied with new ropes. His father-in-law looked satisfied.
"The steward sends a messenger early tomorrow," he said, examining the sacks alongside Zhì Yuǎn. "Everything is in order, thanks to you."
"The weights are correct now," Zhì Yuǎn replied, running his eyes over the bindings. "And the moisture has been controlled."
Yù Chéng nodded, but his gaze lingered on his son-in-law's face.
"You look different today. More… alive."
"I slept well."
The older man laughed, but there was something in his look that suggested he did not fully believe it. He did not ask further, and Zhì Yuǎn offered no explanation.
Lunch was quick. Yù Méi tried to bring up the new song, but Yù Qíng cut her off with a look. Sū Huì served vegetable soup with pieces of pork, and the grandmother, as always, ate in silence, but her eyes followed Zhì Yuǎn through the entire meal.
As he was leaving, she called him.
"Zhì Yuǎn."
He approached. She was sitting on her usual bench, her wrinkled hands clasped in her lap.
"The spark in your eyes has grown," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "Be careful. The fire that warms can also burn."
He bowed.
"I will be careful, Grandmother."
She nodded, and he departed.
---
Night fell quickly, as it always did in the valley. Yù Qíng fell asleep early, exhausted by the day's activity, but Zhì Yuǎn waited until her breathing became deep and regular before going out again.
This time, he went to the clearing in front of the house, where the moonlight fell unobstructed. The moon was nearly full, a silver disk suspended over the mountains, and its light bathed the bamboo grove in a cold, ethereal glow.
He sat on the packed earth, legs crossed, and watched the moon.
The rhythm was different. While the sun rose fast, impetuous, the moon moved with a solemn slowness, like an elder walking through a ceremonial hall. Its light did not warm; it calmed, it soothed, it invited silence.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
At first, nothing happened. His Qi points remained still, as if refusing the call. He tried to force the rhythm of the sun, but it was like trying to light a fire with water. Something did not fit.
You do not force, he thought. The moon does not answer to haste.
He let go of control. Let his breath flow naturally, without effort, just observing. And gradually, a new rhythm emerged: slower, deeper, with longer pauses between inhalation and exhalation. It was the rhythm of the tide, of blood circulating during sleep, of roots growing in the dark.
He inhaled as the moon rises. Held as it hovers at its zenith. Exhaled as it descends toward the horizon.
The Qi points trembled.
And then they began to move.
It was not the impetuous flow of the sun, which swept dozens of points at once. It was a subtler, deeper movement. The points did not race; they seeped, like water through cracks in rock, finding paths that had previously been hidden. They reached the empty space not in a torrent, but in single file, each finding its place with a precision the sun did not allow.
The night cold seeped through his clothes, but inside him there was a pleasant coolness, as if his own blood had become a mountain stream. His mind, alert and vibrant in the morning, now settled into a deep calm.
When he opened his eyes, the moon had already crossed half the sky. He did not know how much time had passed, but his body felt no fatigue. Only a sense of balance, as if two pans of a scale had been leveled.
The Qi of the sun and the Qi of the moon, he reflected, rising. Yang and Yin. One warms, the other calms. One moves fast, the other moves deep. But both nourish.
He walked back to the house with silent steps. Yù Qíng was still asleep, and he lay down beside her, feeling her breath quiet even more as he drew near.
Tomorrow, the steward's messenger would arrive. The sacks would be taken, the taxes paid, and the routine would continue. But something had changed. Inside him, the two rivers—the Yang of the sun, the Yin of the moon—had begun to flow.
And he knew this was only the beginning.
---
End of Chapter 3