Mei Ling returned three hours later, struggling under the weight of a wooden chest.
Minho watched from his position by the window, where he'd been observing the estate grounds. The Wu Clan's outer court was smaller than he'd expected—just a dozen buildings arranged around a central courtyard, with walls that looked more decorative than defensive. Beyond the walls, he could see the roofs of what looked like a small town, smoke rising from chimneys in the late afternoon light.
"Young Master," Mei Ling said, setting the chest down with a grunt. "I brought everything I could find. Most of the cultivation manuals are kept in the main family's library, but these were in the outer court's storage."
Minho crossed the room and knelt beside the chest. Inside were perhaps twenty books, their covers worn and pages yellowed with age. Some were bound in leather, others in simple cloth. A few looked like they might fall apart if handled too roughly.
"These are all basic texts," Mei Ling said apologetically. "Introduction to Qi Condensation, The Five Elements Theory, Spiritual Root Identification… nothing that would be useful for someone who's already—" She caught herself, clearly uncomfortable finishing that sentence.
"They'll do," Minho said, already pulling out the first book. "Leave me."
Mei Ling hesitated at the door. "Young Master, the evening meal will be served soon. Should I have something brought to your room?"
"Yes. And tea. Lots of tea." He was already flipping through pages, his eyes scanning the text with an intensity that made Mei Ling take an involuntary step back.
"As you wish, Young Master."
The door closed. Minho didn't notice.
-----
The sun had set by the time he finished the first book.
It was called "Foundations of the Celestial Path," and it was the most basic primer on cultivation he could have asked for. The kind of book given to children when they first showed signs of spiritual roots. But for Minho, it was exactly what he needed.
Cultivation, he learned, was the process of absorbing spiritual energy—qi—from the world and refining it within the body. This energy was stored in the dantian, a point roughly three fingers below the navel, where it could be drawn upon to strengthen the body, extend life, and eventually perform techniques that defied natural law.
There were stages to cultivation, each one marking a fundamental transformation of the body and spirit. The first stage was Qi Condensation, divided into nine levels. Practitioners at this stage were learning to sense qi, to draw it into their bodies, to circulate it through their meridians. They were stronger than mortals, could heal faster, live longer. But they were still bound to the earth.
The second stage was Foundation Establishment, where the cultivator forged their spiritual foundation—solidifying their qi into something more permanent, more refined. This was the stage where one truly stepped onto the path of immortality. Cultivators at this stage could fly short distances, perform techniques that could level buildings, fight for hours without tiring.
The book mentioned higher stages—Core Formation, Nascent Soul, and beyond—but offered little detail. Those realms were apparently so far above the author's understanding that he could only speak of them in reverent terms, like a blind man describing colors.
Wu Chen had been at the third level of Qi Condensation when Zhao Lin crippled him. Not impressive, but not terrible for someone who'd only been cultivating for five years. The problem was that Zhao Lin had shattered his dantian—the very core of his cultivation. Without it, Wu Chen couldn't store qi. It would be like trying to fill a bucket with no bottom.
Minho set the book aside and picked up another. "The Nature of Spiritual Roots."
This one was more interesting. Spiritual roots, it explained, determined a person's affinity for different types of qi. There were five basic types—Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth—each corresponding to one of the five elements. Most people had roots in two or three elements, which made their cultivation slower but more balanced. True geniuses had single-element roots, allowing them to specialize and advance rapidly.
Then there were special cases. Mutated roots. Rare combinations. The book mentioned something called "Heavenly Spiritual Roots," which appeared once in a generation and marked someone as destined for greatness.
Wu Chen had possessed dual roots in Water and Wood. Nothing special, but not terrible either. The Zhao brat who'd crippled him apparently had single-element Fire roots, which explained his rapid advancement.
Minho closed the book and stared at his hands. Wu Chen's hands. They were soft, unmarked by the calluses that had covered his own hands in his previous life. The hands of someone who'd never really struggled for anything.
He clenched them into fists.
Spiritual roots. Dantians. Foundation Establishment. All of it was new terminology for concepts he'd touched on in the murim without fully understanding them. Martial artists circulated qi through their meridians, but they didn't absorb it from the world—they generated it internally through breathing techniques and physical training. They strengthened their bodies but didn't fundamentally transform them.
Cultivation was different. It was taking what martial artists did and pushing it to its logical extreme, then beyond.
And Minho had access to techniques that bridged both worlds.
He pulled out the fourth book. "Advanced Meridian Theory."
-----
Mei Ling knocked on the door around midnight.
Minho ignored her. He was deep in a manual called "Body Refinement and Bone Cleansing," cross-referencing it with his memories of the Heavenly Demon Divine Art. There was something here, some connection he was starting to see.
The knocking persisted.
"Young Master, please. You need to rest."
"Go away," Minho said without looking up.
"Young Master, I brought the physician. He insists on examining you."
That made Minho pause. He looked up from the book, considering. A physician might have information these basic texts didn't. Or he might just be another obstacle.
"Send him away," Minho said. "I'm fine."
"But Young Master—"
"I said I'm fine." He put enough edge in his voice that Mei Ling fell silent. After a moment, he heard her footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by a brief conversation too quiet to make out. Then silence.
Minho returned to his reading.
The Heavenly Demon Divine Art was unique among martial arts. While most techniques focused on generating qi internally, the Divine Art actively absorbed it from external sources. Specifically, it absorbed the qi of defeated opponents, breaking down their cultivation and adding it to the practitioner's own. Cheon Ma had called it a parasitic art, one that grew stronger by feeding on others.
At the time, Minho had thought of it as just another technique—efficient, brutal, but ultimately limited by the confines of martial arts. He'd used it to great effect, draining the qi of his enemies to fuel his own advancement. But he'd never considered what it meant in the context of true cultivation.
If the Divine Art could absorb qi from people, could it absorb it from the environment? From spiritual stones or herbs? Could it be adapted to work within a cultivation framework rather than just a martial one?
More importantly, could it help repair a shattered dantian?
Minho set down the manual and closed his eyes, focusing inward. Wu Chen's body felt wrong—not just weak, but incomplete. He could sense the meridians, pathways through which qi should flow. They were intact, surprisingly. Zhao Lin had specifically targeted the dantian, not bothering to damage the supporting structures. Probably because he'd wanted Wu Chen to live with the knowledge of what he'd lost.
The dantian itself was a mess. Instead of a smooth, contained space where qi could be stored and refined, it was fractured—like a porcelain bowl that had been dropped and poorly glued back together. Qi leaked through the cracks as fast as it entered, making accumulation impossible.
But cracks could be sealed. Porcelain could be remade.
It would just require the right technique.
-----
The next morning, Minho asked Mei Ling about the town beyond the estate walls.
She looked surprised by the question. "That's Clearwater Town, Young Master. About five thousand people, mostly farmers and merchants. The Wu Clan administers it, collecting taxes and settling disputes."
"And the people there know about cultivation?"
Mei Ling shook her head quickly. "Of course not, Young Master. The Seven Royal Families keep such matters private. To the townsfolk, we're just nobility. Wealthy, powerful in worldly matters, but nothing supernatural."
"How do you enforce that?"
"We don't live among them," Mei Ling said. "The estate is separate, walled off. We have servants who go into town for supplies, but they're sworn to secrecy. And besides, most cultivation activities happen within the family compounds or in designated training grounds far from mortal eyes."
That aligned with what Minho had read. The cultivation world and the mortal world existed side by side, but separate. Cultivators viewed mortals the way humans viewed ants—beneath notice, unworthy of attention. The Seven Royal Families maintained the pretense of normalcy to make governing easier, but they were careful to keep their true nature hidden.
"I want to go into town," Minho said.
Mei Ling nearly dropped the tea tray she was carrying. "Young Master, you… you can't. The family has asked that you remain in the outer court until—"
"Until what? Until I die quietly? Until I stop being an embarrassment?" Minho stood from his desk, where he'd spent most of the night reading. "I'm going to town, Mei Ling. You can either help me or get out of my way."
She set down the tray with shaking hands. The old Wu Chen would never have spoken like this. The old Wu Chen had been timid, ashamed, broken.
"What's changed, Young Master?" she asked quietly. "Two days ago you tried to kill yourself. Now you're… different."
Minho considered the question. How much should he tell her? Mei Ling was a servant, bound to the Wu Clan through contracts that would punish her severely for disloyalty. But she was also the only person in this estate who seemed to give a damn whether he lived or died.
"Let's just say I've gained some perspective," he said finally. "Now, are you going to help me or not?"
Mei Ling worried her lower lip. "If the family finds out…"
"They won't. Not from me, at least."
She let out a long breath. "There's a servants' entrance on the east side of the estate. It's less watched than the main gate. If you dress simply and keep your head down, you could probably slip out without being noticed."
"Good. Get me appropriate clothes."
"Young Master, what are you planning to do in town?"
Minho smiled. "Research."
-----
Clearwater Town smelled like manure and woodsmoke.
Minho walked through the streets with his head down, dressed in the simple brown robes Mei Ling had procured. They were rougher than anything Wu Chen had probably worn in his entire life, but they were perfect for blending in. Around him, townsfolk went about their business—farmers hauling vegetables to market, children playing in the mud, women hanging laundry in the morning sun.
No one gave him a second glance.
It was strange, being anonymous again. As the Supreme Demon, Minho had been unable to move anywhere without people either bowing or fleeing. His presence had commanded attention, respect, fear. Now he was just another face in the crowd, another young man with nothing better to do than wander the market.
He found what he was looking for near the center of town—a bookshop, its sign hanging crooked above a narrow doorway. The front window displayed various texts on farming techniques, merchant contracts, and local history.
Inside, the shop was cramped and cluttered. Shelves lined every wall, packed with books in various states of decay. The air smelled like old paper and dust. Behind a counter near the back, an elderly man sat reading by candlelight despite the morning sun streaming through the windows.
He looked up as Minho entered, his eyes sharp despite his age. "Help you with something, young man?"
"Do you have anything on medicine?" Minho asked. "Traditional remedies, healing techniques, that sort of thing."
The old man grunted and gestured toward a shelf on the left. "Folk medicine section. Most of it's superstition and old wives' tales, but there are a few texts by actual physicians mixed in. Looking for something specific?"
"Information on injuries," Minho said. "Internal damage. How to repair what's been broken."
The old man studied him for a moment. "You hurt?"
"A friend," Minho lied smoothly.
"Mm." The old man didn't look convinced, but he stood slowly and shuffled over to the shelf, running his fingers across the spines until he found what he was looking for. "Here. 'The Physician's Handbook' by Doctor Chen Wei. Written about forty years ago by one of the best healers in the province. He covers everything from broken bones to damaged organs. If your 'friend' has something wrong with him, this might help."
Minho took the book and flipped through it. The text was dense, written in precise calligraphy that made his eyes hurt just looking at it. But there were diagrams—detailed drawings of human anatomy, notes on which herbs could treat which ailments.
"How much?" he asked.
"Five silver pieces."
Minho froze. He'd left the estate with no money. He'd been so focused on getting out that he hadn't thought about basic practicalities like paying for things.
The old man saw his expression and sighed. "You've got nothing, do you?"
"I… no."
"Of course not." The old man took the book back and set it on the counter. "Tell you what. You look like someone who needs help, and I'm not so old that I've forgotten what that feels like. You can borrow it for a week. But if you don't bring it back, I'm reporting you to the magistrate. Understood?"
Minho stared at him. "Why would you do that?"
"Because books should be read," the old man said simply. "What good are they sitting on my shelf when someone needs them? Now get out of here before I change my mind."
Minho took the book carefully, treating it like the treasure it was. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just bring it back in one piece."
-----
Minho spent the rest of the morning in a teahouse on the edge of town, reading.
The Physician's Handbook was remarkable. Doctor Chen Wei had spent decades studying the human body, documenting everything from basic anatomy to complex surgical procedures. He discussed meridians—not in the context of cultivation, of course, but as pathways for "vital energy" that could be manipulated through acupuncture and massage.
What caught Minho's attention was a chapter on traumatic injuries and the body's natural healing process. Doctor Chen described something he called "regenerative crisis"—a state where the body, pushed to the edge of death, would sometimes repair itself in unexpected ways. He'd seen it in patients who survived terrible fevers or near-drownings. Their bodies would go through a period of intense change, burning away damaged tissue and rebuilding from the foundation.
It was rare, unpredictable, and often fatal. But when it worked, the results were dramatic. Scarred lungs would clear. Damaged nerves would reconnect. In one case, a patient who'd been partially paralyzed regained full mobility after a regenerative crisis triggered by a particularly nasty infection.
Doctor Chen had spent years trying to understand the mechanism, to find a way to induce it safely. He'd failed, ultimately concluding that regenerative crisis was too dangerous and too unreliable to pursue as a deliberate treatment.
But Minho wasn't Doctor Chen. He wasn't working with mortal medicine and folk remedies.
He was a martial artist with knowledge of cultivation, armed with one of the most powerful and forbidden techniques ever created.
And he was beginning to see how it might all fit together.
-----
When Minho returned to the estate that afternoon, he found Mei Ling waiting for him at the servants' entrance. Her face was pale, her hands clasped tight in front of her.
"Young Master," she hissed as soon as he was through the gate. "Where have you been? The Second Young Master came looking for you!"
Minho felt a jolt of alarm. Wu Chen's memories supplied the information: Second Young Master Wu Jian, the legitimate son of the clan patriarch's second wife. Two years older than Wu Chen, currently at the seventh level of Qi Condensation, and one of the family's rising stars.
Also, according to Wu Chen's fragmented memories, a complete bastard.
"What did he want?" Minho asked.
"I don't know! I told him you were sleeping and shouldn't be disturbed, but he insisted on checking. He went to your room." Mei Ling wrung her hands. "Young Master, if he finds out you left the estate…"
Minho was already moving, heading toward his quarters at a quick walk. The book from the shop was hidden inside his robes, pressed against his chest. If Wu Jian was in his room, he'd have seen all the cultivation texts scattered across the desk.
That might not be a problem. Or it might be a disaster.
He reached his room to find the door open.
Wu Jian stood inside, examining one of the books with an expression of bemused contempt. He was taller than Wu Chen, more solidly built, with the kind of confident posture that came from never having been truly challenged. His robes were fine silk, embroidered with golden thread in patterns that proclaimed his status. His hair was bound in a topknot secured with a jade pin.
He looked up as Minho entered, and his lip curled into something that might have been a smile if it held any warmth.
"Little brother," Wu Jian said. "How industrious you've become. Reading about cultivation when you can no longer cultivate. Is this what they call optimism? Or just delusion?"
Minho closed the door behind him and considered his options. Wu Chen's memories told him that Wu Jian had always been cruel, but in a casual way—the cruelty of someone who didn't need to think about the consequences of their actions. He'd tormented Wu Chen throughout their childhood, secure in his position as the favored son.
In his previous life, Minho would have killed him without hesitation. But that wasn't an option here. Not yet.
"Second Brother," Minho said, keeping his tone neutral. "What brings you to the outer court?"
"Concern," Wu Jian said, setting down the book with exaggerated care. "I heard about your unfortunate accident with the poison. I wanted to see if you were truly recovered." He walked closer, his eyes sharp. "You look different. Something in the eyes, maybe. Less… pathetic."
"I'm well enough."
"Are you?" Wu Jian stopped an arm's length away. "Because from where I'm standing, little brother, you're a cripple playing at scholarship. You know you'll never cultivate again, don't you? The physician examined your dantian. It's destroyed. Finished. Even if you memorize every cultivation manual in the empire, it won't change that."
"Then why are you here?" Minho asked. "If I'm so pathetic, why bother visiting?"
Something flickered in Wu Jian's expression. "Father wanted me to deliver a message. The clan elders are meeting in three days to discuss your situation. They'll decide whether to keep supporting you or…" He trailed off meaningfully.
"Or what?"
"Or sever ties completely. Give you a bag of gold and send you into the world to make your own way. It would be the merciful option, really. Better than keeping you here as a reminder of the clan's shame."
Minho felt a cold anger settling in his chest. Wu Chen's memories told him this was exactly the kind of thing the family would do. They were cultivators, obsessed with strength and status. A crippled son was worse than a dead one—at least death could be painted as honorable sacrifice.
"I see," Minho said. "Thank you for delivering the message, Second Brother."
Wu Jian studied him for another moment. "You really have changed. The old Wu Chen would be crying right now, begging me to speak to Father on his behalf." He shook his head. "Maybe the poison damaged more than your body. Maybe it burned away some of that weakness too."
"Maybe."
"Well." Wu Jian turned toward the door. "Try not to make too much of a spectacle at the meeting. The family has enough problems without you embarrassing us further." He paused at the threshold. "Oh, and little brother? Those books you're reading? You might want to return them to the library before someone notices they're missing. Theft is a serious offense, even for family members."
He left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Minho stood in the silence that followed, his hands clenched into fists. Three days. He had three days before the family decided his fate.
Not enough time to repair his dantian. Not enough time to prove his worth through cultivation.
But maybe enough time to start.
He pulled out the borrowed book and opened it to the chapter on regenerative crisis, his mind already working through the possibilities.
In the murim, martial artists who reached a certain level of mastery would undergo what Cheon Ma called "marrow cleansing"—a process where the body purged impurities and rebuilt itself stronger than before. It was part of advancing from external martial arts, which strengthened muscles and bones, to internal martial arts, which refined the very essence of the body.
Minho had achieved marrow cleansing twice in his previous life. He knew the process, knew the techniques required to guide the body through that transformation.
Could he do it again? In a body that had never practiced martial arts? With a cultivation base that was shattered?
The answer, according to everything he'd read, was no. Impossible. Marrow cleansing required a foundation of martial training that took years to build. You couldn't just force a body through that process without preparation.
Unless you had the Heavenly Demon Divine Art.
The Divine Art was designed to absorb qi from external sources. What if, instead of absorbing qi from enemies, he absorbed it from the environment itself? Forced it into his body in quantities that would overwhelm a normal person, then used martial techniques to channel that overload into a controlled transformation?
It would be incredibly dangerous. The slightest mistake could kill him—or worse, cripple him in ways that would make his current state look mild.
But Minho had built his entire second life on doing things that should have been impossible.
He just needed one more piece. One more technique to bridge the gap between what cultivation manuals described and what he knew from his martial experience.
And he thought he knew where to find it.
-----
That evening, Minho asked Mei Ling about the family's training grounds.
"They're in the main compound, Young Master," she said, clearly confused by the question. "But you're not allowed there anymore. Not since…" She couldn't bring herself to finish.
"I know. But are there training grounds in the outer court? Even old ones, abandoned ones?"
Mei Ling thought for a moment. "There's an old pavilion near the eastern wall. It used to be used for martial training, back when the clan maintained a guard force. But that was decades ago. Now it's just storage."
"Show me."
"Young Master, it's almost dark—"
"Show me."
Mei Ling led him through the estate, past the other buildings of the outer court, to a structure that was half-collapsed against the eastern wall. It had once been beautiful—Minho could see the remains of carved pillars and decorative tilework. But time and neglect had taken their toll. The roof sagged, the floor was covered in debris, and everything smelled of rot and mildew.
"This is it," Mei Ling said. "Young Master, why do you want to come here?"
"I need space to practice," Minho said, stepping into the pavilion and testing the floorboards. Some creaked alarmingly, but most seemed solid enough. "This will do."
"Practice what? Young Master, you can't cultivate—"
"Who said anything about cultivation?"
Minho moved to the center of the space and dropped into a horse stance, feeling Wu Chen's weak muscles protest. The body was soft, untrained, nothing like what he was used to. But it would have to do.
He began to move through the opening forms of the Heavenly Demon Divine Art.
The movements were slow, controlled, focusing on breathing and the circulation of qi through the meridians. In his previous body, Minho could have performed them in his sleep. Now, Wu Chen's body struggled to maintain even the basic positions.
But that wasn't the point. The point was to remember, to rebuild the neural pathways, to teach this new body what his old one had known instinctively.
Mei Ling watched from the doorway, her expression unreadable.
"Young Master," she said after a while. "What you're doing… that's not one of the Wu Clan's techniques."
"No," Minho said, not stopping. "It's not."
"Then where did you learn it?"
"Somewhere else. A long time ago." He completed the form and moved into the next one, feeling the qi in his meridians begin to stir—sluggish, weak, but present. "Tell me something, Mei Ling. How long have you served the Wu Clan?"
"Ten years, Young Master. Since I was twelve."
"And in that time, have you ever seen anyone recover from a shattered dantian?"
"No, Young Master. Such a thing is impossible."
"Good," Minho said, moving into a more complex sequence. His breath was already coming hard, Wu Chen's pathetic stamina failing him. But he pushed through. "Then when I do it, it will be all the more impressive."
Mei Ling said nothing. But she didn't leave either.
Minho continued practicing until his body gave out, until his legs could no longer support him and he collapsed to the floor, gasping. Every muscle screamed. His meridians felt like they were on fire. Wu Chen's body was nowhere near ready for what he was asking it to do.
But that was fine. He'd been weak once before. He'd built himself into something terrifying through sheer determination and refusal to accept limits.
He'd do it again.
He just had to survive the next three days first.