Chapter 21 — Refined, Polished, Continuity-Integrated Version
Dàilán knelt before the low desk in her study, sleeves neatly folded back as she examined the ancient bamboo strips unfurled across the polished wood.
She had found the manuscript only the day prior, tucked deep within a pawn shop — a place she should never have set foot in. Such shops held the faded remnants of families fallen on hard times, or items that had mysteriously changed hands in ways no one spoke about. Certainly not somewhere a Guan clan gūniáng ought to visit. Even if she cared little for the mutterings of narrow-minded tongues, she understood perfectly well that the Clan's reputation was not hers to toy with.
Politics. Always politics.
But yesterday she had reached the edge of her tolerance. An entire flock of boys and young men — all old enough to know better — had insisted on "accompanying" her and Chén'er along Market Street. Their feigned subtlety was insultingly poor. Every one of them had hopes of winning her favour, and every one of them grated on her nerves.
When Chén'er shifted her nearly twice-head-height parasol with calculated precision to block their line of sight, Dàilán had taken the chance to slip around a corner. The parasol drifted on ahead like an obedient decoy, the gaggle of suitors trailing after it without a single glance toward the dingy little shop she had darted into.
The elderly broker inside had started in surprise at seeing a Guan daughter in such a place. Or rather, in surprised amusement — for while noble daughters were not meant to be seen in lower‑ring shops, this particular young mistress occasionally slipped through the city's quieter alleys on her small 'relic hunts.' The common folk never spoke of it, of course; Dàilán had earned a quiet, stubborn sort of affection among them after more than one small adventure. Those who once tried to sell such stories quickly learned — very firmly — to keep their tongues still. But when she noticed Dàilán casting furtive looks toward the window, the woman merely winked and ushered her deeper into the shadows without a word.
Dàilán moved through a maze of leaning towers of mismatched objects — chipped pots, tarnished ornaments, faded rugs, mould-scented clothes. It was the kind of clutter that told a hundred sad stories if one stared too long. She refused to linger.
Near the back she found a wall of scrolls and bamboo-strip manuscripts. Feeling it rude to leave empty-handed after the broker's quiet assistance, she browsed the dusty collection. One crookedly wedged stack of bamboo strips drew her eye. On the exposed slat, the ancient character for Form glimmered faintly.
Curiosity stirred. She eased it free, revealing more archaic characters — Formation among them — ones she recognised only through hours spent poring over the Clan's older records and her discreet passion for relic hunting.
By the time Chén'er managed to circle back and retrieve her, the sky had begun to dim. The bamboo strips had been tucked away in haste, their study postponed until now — the first quiet moment she'd had since.
Tracing her fingers across the age-smoothed carvings, she allowed a small smile. Perhaps this was the sort of "fortunate encounter" commoners loved to gossip about.
If this were a story told in the tea-houses, these bamboo strips would contain secret immortal techniques destined to change her fate.
With careful strokes, she began translating the archaic characters into modern Xia script.
*"Natural… Formations… without false… anchor… superior. Not… false… consuming.
Against natural… Essence… flow."*
She frowned. This… did not resemble anything in orthodox Formation theory. Could this be an advanced manual? A forgotten school of thought?
Another section read:
"Follow flow of Essence to natural Essence point… guide to appropriate point… complete pattern…"
She paused. "Natural Essence point" — the writer used the term repeatedly, as though any properly trained Formation Master would understand.
"Hm." She set her brush aside and crossed to her shelves. "Where is Sage Xu's Treatise…?"
She unrolled the tall scroll, mumbling through headings. "Foundations… Locks… Gates… Inscribing… there."
The familiar passage greeted her:
"…a Formation is created when the Formation Master imposes a Heaven-derived pattern onto the world through Essence anchors prepared in accordance with the stars…"
She carried the scroll back and reread her translation.
Naturally formed formations are superior to false, consuming formations imposed against the natural flow of Essence. Follow the natural flow… guide Essence between points… allow the pattern to arise…
Her breath caught.
This ancient text was proposing a complete rejection of orthodox practice. Instead of forcing a pattern upon the land, one should follow the world's own structure. The writer implied that imposing a Formation might be the very reason formations required immense Essence and punishing effort.
If their method worked… she might reshape her cultivation grounds exactly as she wished — without draining her reserves dry or spending decades learning landscape alteration.
For moons she had searched for ways to improve her meditation garden — the little sand court where she sparred and practised her forms. None of the orthodox methods suited her; the land refused to yield to forced patterns. But this… this ancient method felt like a key she had been missing.
She had long hoped to adjust the old maintenance formation in her meditation garden — nothing ambitious, merely enough to hide a sparring mode or two. But she could hardly ask a Clan craftsman without inviting questions she could not answer. Studying on her own had been the only option.
Excitement warmed her chest. She bent eagerly over the strips again.
The Golden Crow was directly overhead by the time she set the brush down. Her head throbbed; her stomach protested sharply.
Worse — she had barely translated even a handful of the bamboo strips.
The writer assumed that the reader could perceive external Essence directly. As if one could simply look at the world and see its currents.
Only Cultivators nearing the World Level were rumoured to have such vision outside of tribulations. Even commoners understood that lesser ranks could only hurl their internal Essence outward in techniques.
Dàilán rubbed her temples. "Hopeless…"
She rose stiffly from the desk, arms and back protesting after so long hunched forward. In her bedroom, she moved into her familiar stance and began a slow tàijíquán form. Her breath steadied. Muscles warmed. Frustration melted into the familiar rhythm of movement.
When hunger returned more insistently, she sighed and left her suite. Chén'er was still out — so she would manage lunch alone.
Avoiding the central courtyard, she slipped into the smaller servants' courtyard. Her cousins never ventured here; she was safe.
A polite knock brought the Head Matron bustling forward. "Young Mistress! What brings you here?"
All activity halted. Dàilán dipped her head, embarrassed by the fuss. "Forgive me, Matron. I lost track of time while studying and Chén'er is still on errands. I thought to seek my lunch myself…"
The Matron bowed deeply. "A moment, mistress." She turned sharply on the kitchen girls. "Enough gawking! Do not shame the Young Mistress. The other Heirs will not tolerate their meals delayed by a single miǎo."
Then she softened again. "Please choose whatever you wish. I will have it sent to your rooms."
Dàilán hesitated. Her rooms felt terribly empty today. Without Chén'er beside her, the silence settled on her shoulders more heavily than usual.
"If Matron permits… I would prefer to take a corner seat out here. It is comforting to watch work being done. I have achieved very little myself today."
Understanding gentled the woman's features. "All the simpler. Come, mistress — choose as you like."
A lively meal among the servants did more to settle her mood than hours of meditation ever could. Their cheerful noise reminded her that the world was not solely composed of scheming cousins and suffocating expectations.
After declining repeated offers of more food, she retrieved her favourite bāwū from her suite and returned to her meditation ground.
Unbeknownst to her, the rhythm of the ancient words lingered in her mind long after she set down the bamboo strips — faint as dust, soft as breath. When she lifted her flute that afternoon, the cadence of those archaic lines threaded themselves into her playing. And the world answered.
The afternoon sun warmed the sand garden. She settled atop her usual boulder and lifted the flute.
Music drifted out — soft first, then flowing like an unbroken ribbon. She let her mind loosen. Let her breath and Essence move naturally.
Her consciousness drifted inward. Her Essence swirled gently through her meridians, flowing without force, without pain. Around her dāntián, the mists coiled like clouds around a mountain peak.
Unlike the Clan's rigid techniques, this felt… right.
Somewhere, deep in her memory, a faint echo stirred — her mother's voice, half‑remembered, urging her as a child to listen to the world rather than command it. The thought drifted away as quickly as it came, like a ripple fading across still water.
Whole.
Her chest loosened; her thoughts quieted; her Essence settled in tranquil rotation.
A faint call of her name tugged at her awareness. The melody faded.
She blinked. Shadows had stretched across the courtyard. The Golden Crow was already descending toward its western rest.
Chén'er stood beside her, eyes wide with concern. "Lán'er? Are you well? The servants said the flute has been playing for many shí…"
Dàilán stretched, surprised by how light her limbs felt. "I am well. Your errands are done?"
"Yes. But mistress… you were radiating. I almost feared to interrupt."
"I was only playing."
Chén'er stared. "Then your cultivation still advanced. Look — impurities have ruined your dress."
Dàilán looked down with a start. "Ah! Bath — quickly!"
Chén'er followed close behind. "Mistress… you did not notice at all. What were you doing?"
"I… am not entirely certain. Only trying something I read…"
Chén'er clutched her sleeves. "What!?"