Cultivation in this world did not begin with sitting cross-legged like an ancient immortal.
It began with curiosity.
Every child in Gang Village was taught to feel the qi around them. It was something anyone could do—eventually. The only real difference was when.
Some children managed it at two years old.
Some at six.
Gang Hua first felt it when he was four.
At the time, the village elders nodded, said "not bad," and moved on.
That suited him just fine.
⸻
The first thing the elders taught was control.
"Imagine qi like dust in sunlight," they said. "The more precisely you can move it, the faster you'll grow later."
Qi Gathering, they explained, was drawing in the surrounding qi to wash the body—strengthening muscles, warming organs, improving health. But it was also dangerous. Attempting it without a proper method could damage a child permanently.
That was why no one was allowed to truly cultivate until around eight years old.
Gang Hua understood this rule very well.
That didn't stop him from experimenting.
⸻
Right now, he sat in his usual hidden clearing, legs crossed, eyes half-open, quietly observing the air.
Qi appeared to him as countless floating specks of color.
Red.
Blue.
Yellow.
Green.
And occasionally, a faint flicker of purple.
At first, he believed that controlling a single particle would prove his talent.
He nearly drove himself mad.
No matter how hard he focused, the tiny speck would jitter, slip away, or ignore him entirely.
"Trash talent," he muttered once, glaring at the air.
Out of frustration, he tried something else.
Instead of grasping one, he pushed at everything.
To his surprise, the particles shifted together like a drifting cloud.
"…Oh."
It turned out that controlling many things at once was easier.
From there, separating a single color from the group became possible—but only if he maintained control over both the whole and the part at the same time.
It was exhausting.
Two years of quiet trial and error later, Gang Hua could now separate fire qi and water qi simultaneously.
Wind qi, however, still mocked him relentlessly.
⸻
Today, his mind refused to settle.
The steady rhythm of the blacksmith shop replayed over and over in his thoughts.
Hammer rises.
Hammer falls.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Uncle Wu never rushed. Never hesitated. Never wasted motion.
Gang Hua frowned, then slowly stood.
"Maybe…" he murmured, "…moving is better than sitting."
He began to imitate the rhythm—not with a hammer, but with his body.
A step forward.
An arm swings.
Breath in.
Breath out.
At first, it was clumsy. Too stiff. Too deliberate.
Then something shifted.
A memory surfaced.
Not words.
Not names.
Firelight dancing beneath the night sky.
Drums beating—slow, steady, solemn.
Movements passed down through generations.
Not for battle.
But for offering.
A dance meant to honor warmth, survival, and life itself.
His body remembered before his mind did.
⸻
His breathing changed.
The air around him grew warmer.
Fire qi did not rush toward him.
It followed.
Each motion guided it gently, like coaxing embers into flame. The warmth spread through his limbs—not burning, but comforting.
Then the wind shifted.
Thin strands of wind qi intertwined with the fire, feeding it, sharpening it. The warmth deepened, spreading inward.
The clearing fell silent.
Even the insects stopped.
Gang Hua didn't notice.
He was too focused on moving.
For the first time, his body, breath, and intent aligned.
⸻
Then reality caught up.
His legs trembled.
His chest tightened.
The warmth grew heavy—oppressive.
Gang Hua stumbled and collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air.
Everything hurt.
Everything had worked too well.
After a long moment, he lay there staring at the sky.
"…Yeah," he muttered weakly. "That was definitely not allowed."
He checked himself carefully.
No sharp pain.
No internal damage.
Just exhaustion.
And aching muscles.
A warning, not a punishment.
That night, Gang Hua dragged himself back to bed and fell asleep almost instantly.
Unaware that something subtle had taken root.
And that the next time he moved—
It would be different.