The cave was quieter than usual.
Not because the forest had stilled.
But because something within it had begun to listen.
Shen An sat cross-legged on the stone floor, the jade bowl resting in his hands. Its surface held a faint internal glow, like moonlight caught beneath water. The childish female voice inside it had been muttering to herself for the past few breaths.
"…So dusty… so cramped… and why does everything smell like dried meat?"
"You are in a cave," Shen An replied evenly. "I live here."
A pause.
"You live here?"
"For nine years."
Another pause, longer this time.
"…You mortals are resilient in very inconvenient ways."
He glanced down at the jade surface.
"You are very talkative for an artifact."
"And you are very dry for a fifteen-year-old."
He blinked once.
"You know my age?"
"I can feel your bone age through blood resonance. Do not interrupt."
He exhaled slowly.
For someone who had spoken almost nothing for nearly a decade, conversation felt strange—like flexing muscles long unused. Yet he did not dislike it.
He held the bowl up to eye level.
"You said earlier that I am your master."
"Yes."
"You also said this vessel requires bloodline recognition."
"Yes."
"And that my blood restored you."
"Yes."
"Then explain clearly."
The jade shimmered faintly.
"Hold me with both hands," she said.
He did.
"Place me against your chest."
He raised one eyebrow.
"That sounds unnecessary."
"Do it."
He rolled his eyes but complied, pressing the cool jade gently against his sternum.
"Close your eyes."
He did.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then—
Light.
Not blinding.
Not explosive.
Soft jade radiance spread outward from the bowl, covering his torso first, then flowing across his limbs like liquid silk. It did not burn.
It sank.
Through skin.
Through muscle.
Through bone.
Shen An's breathing slowed instinctively.
He felt… examined.
Layer by layer.
A current passed through his body, not like qi—he remembered qi. Qi was flowing warmth, like a river through channels.
This was different.
This was mapping.
He heard Qingyu's voice again, quieter now, focused.
"Meridians… damaged but not sealed. Residual scar tissue from violent collapse."
He did not interrupt.
"Dantian…"
Silence.
Long silence.
"…Destroyed."
The word landed without echo.
Shen An did not react.
He already knew.
She continued.
"Lower abdominal energy center completely ruptured. Core vortex shattered. There is no recovery path through orthodox methods."
"I am aware," he said calmly.
"You speak like someone commenting on the weather."
"Complaining does not repair it."
The jade light pulsed faintly.
"Your meridians are twisted from prior cultivation attempts. You forced circulation even after instability."
"Yes."
"That was foolish."
"Yes."
She paused.
"…Your bone density is abnormal for your age."
He opened one eye slightly.
"Abnormal?"
"Dense. Hardened. Microfractures healed repeatedly. You have been striking stone."
"Yes."
"Running uneven terrain."
"Yes."
"Cold exposure conditioning."
"Yes."
"You are a very inconvenient mortal."
He allowed the faintest hint of pride into his tone.
"I did not wish to die."
The jade light dimmed slightly, then brightened again.
"Your blood flow is stable. Heart rhythm disciplined. Lung capacity expanded beyond normal baseline."
She fell silent again.
Shen An waited.
Then—
She exhaled softly.
"You are broken in the most useful way."
He opened both eyes.
"That sounds like praise disguised as an insult."
"It is assessment."
The light withdrew gradually, settling back into the bowl.
He lowered it from his chest.
"So," he said, voice even, "I cannot cultivate."
"Incorrect."
He stilled.
"You cannot cultivate in the conventional sense."
She rotated faintly in his hands.
"Orthodox cultivation requires an intact dantian to gather and refine qi. You do not possess one."
"I am aware."
"But," she continued, tone shifting slightly, "there exist paths that do not rely on the dantian at all."
He did not move.
His eyes sharpened.
"Explain."
"There are methods designed for mortals."
"Mortals do not ascend."
"That is what heaven prefers."
Silence.
The cave felt smaller.
"What are you implying?" he asked quietly.
Her jade glow deepened.
"There exists a forbidden scripture."
He did not blink.
"Name."
She paused.
As if pulling memory from deep sediment.
"…The Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon."
The words did not thunder.
They settled.
Heavy.
Measured.
He repeated it softly.
"Heaven-Defying… Mortal… Ascension Canon."
"Yes."
"It requires no dantian?"
"It rejects reliance on it."
"And what does it use?"
"Body."
"Breath."
"Blood."
"Marrow."
"Consciousness."
She rotated once.
"It was created for those who were rejected by heaven."
A faint wind moved at the cave entrance.
He remained still.
"And why is it forbidden?" he asked.
"Because it does not ask permission."
A silence followed.
He felt something unfamiliar rise in his chest.
Not excitement.
Recognition.
"And you remember this clearly?" he asked.
"No."
He frowned slightly.
"I remember fragments."
"Convenient."
"You mock me?"
"I state observation."
She ignored him.
"I remember that this Canon bypasses the dantian entirely. It establishes something called the Origin Pulse."
"Location?"
"Behind the heart, along the spine. Sometimes at the marrow axis."
"And this Origin Pulse replaces the dantian?"
"No."
"It surpasses it."
He exhaled slowly.
"Why would anyone choose this over orthodox cultivation?"
"They would not."
"Why?"
"Because to learn it properly, one must begin as a true mortal."
His gaze sharpened further.
"No dantian from birth?"
"Yes."
"Or destroyed?"
"…Destroyed qualifies."
He absorbed that.
"So those who lose everything…"
"…are eligible."
He let out a soft breath through his nose.
"And what is the cost?"
"There is always a cost."
She rotated faintly.
"Pain."
"How much?"
"Yes."
He almost smiled.
"Clear."
"You will rebuild your body from the inside outward. Bone compression. Tendon extension. Blood refinement. Conscious breath alignment."
"And failure?"
"Rupture."
"Of what?"
"Whatever fails first."
He nodded once.
"Acceptable."
"You say that too easily."
He looked at her.
"I spent nine years alone in this forest."
"That is not relevant."
"It is."
She was quiet.
After a moment, she spoke again.
"There is something else."
"Yes?"
"This Canon is incomplete."
He stared at her.
"Incomplete?"
"I remember fragments. The full structure is beyond my current memory."
"So I will be practicing a broken forbidden technique without a dantian, guided by a partially amnesiac bowl spirit."
"…When you phrase it like that, it sounds unstable."
He rolled his eyes.
"It is unstable."
"Yes."
They were quiet for several breaths.
Then—
"Before we proceed," he said, "what is your name?"
Silence.
"…I do not remember."
"You do not remember your name."
"No."
"How inconvenient."
She hummed irritably.
"Thousands of years sealed will do that."
"So you have no name."
"…Not currently."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Then I will call you Bowl."
"Absolutely not."
He pretended to think.
"Jade."
"Unacceptable."
"Annoyance."
"I will retract the Canon."
He smirked faintly.
"Fine."
He studied the green sheen of her surface.
"You are jade. Restored. Clear."
"Yes."
"Qing."
She waited.
"Qingyu."
Silence.
"…That is acceptable."
"Good."
"You will not add insults to it?"
"Not aloud."
She glowed faintly in irritation.
"You are more expressive than your face suggests."
"I had nine years of silence stored."
"Yes, I have noticed."
He stood slowly.
"So, Qingyu," he said, testing the name, "how does one begin the Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon?"
The jade shimmered.
"Remove your outer garments."
He stared at her.
"…Explain."
"You need full muscular articulation."
"Clarify earlier next time."
"You assume too much corruption for someone who lived alone for nine years."
He did not answer.
He removed his upper layer of rough cloth.
His body was lean.
Scars across shoulders and forearms.
Defined muscle, but not exaggerated.
A hunter's frame.
"Stand."
He did.
"Feet shoulder-width."
He adjusted.
"Spine straight."
He aligned.
"Chin level."
He complied.
"Now breathe."
He inhaled.
"No."
She vibrated slightly.
"That is normal breathing."
"Is that not the point?"
"Do not interrupt."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Breathe as if drawing air into your spine."
"That is anatomically inaccurate."
"Use imagination."
He inhaled again, slower.
"Visualize breath descending behind the heart."
He focused.
It felt foolish.
But he did it.
"Inhale."
"Hold."
"Compress abdomen—not to gather qi—but to press blood upward."
He obeyed.
Pressure built in his chest.
"Now release—slowly."
He exhaled.
A strange sensation followed.
Not qi.
Not warmth.
Something subtle.
A faint internal vibration.
He frowned.
"Again."
They repeated.
Again.
Again.
By the tenth repetition, his legs trembled slightly.
By the twentieth, sweat formed at his temples.
"This is merely foundational breathing," Qingyu said calmly.
"It feels excessive."
"It is insufficient."
He gritted his teeth.
"Continue."
He continued.
Time passed.
Breath after breath.
His muscles began to shake more visibly.
His heart pounded.
He tasted iron at the back of his throat.
"Stop."
He stopped immediately.
Blood dripped lightly from his nose.
He wiped it with the back of his hand.
"You ruptured a minor capillary," she said.
"Is that… good?"
"It means you are forcing adaptation."
He exhaled once.
"Then we proceed."
"You speak like someone eager for suffering."
"I am accustomed to it."
Silence.
Then—
"Very well," she said softly. "Tomorrow we begin bone compression."
He blinked.
"That was not bone compression?"
"That was breath alignment."
He stared at her.
"…This Canon is hostile."
"Yes."
He sat back down slowly.
His chest still vibrated faintly.
Not qi.
Something else.
Subtle.
Deep.
He looked at Qingyu.
"You said this path is forbidden."
"Yes."
"Good."
"Why?"
He met the glow within the jade surface.
"If heaven did not want me," he said quietly, "then I have no obligation to follow its design."
The jade shimmered.
"You speak boldly for a mortal."
"I am only mortal."
A pause.
Then Qingyu spoke more softly than before.
"…Not for long."
The cave fell quiet again.
Outside, wind moved through trees.
Inside, a new path had begun.
And for the first time since losing everything—
Shen An felt not restored.
Not vindicated.
But aligned.
He looked down at the jade bowl.
"Qingyu."
"Yes?"
"If this Canon kills me."
"Yes?"
"You will not complain about living in a cave again."
"…Focus on breathing correctly first."
A faint smile touched his lips.
And he inhaled once more.
Dawn arrived without ceremony.
Mist clung low between the trees, and the forest breathed in slow rhythm. Shen An had not slept much. Not from fear. Not from excitement.
From thinking.
The Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon.
The name itself felt like stepping onto thin ice over deep water.
He stood outside the cave barefoot, the earth cool beneath his soles. Qingyu rested on a flat stone beside him, her jade surface faintly luminous in the early light.
"You are staring at nothing," she said.
"I am preparing."
"You have been preparing for nine years."
He glanced sideways at her.
"And I am still alive."
"That is not proof of efficiency."
He rolled his shoulders once.
"You said today begins bone compression."
"Yes."
"That sounds unpleasant."
"It is."
He exhaled slowly.
"Good."
"Sit," Qingyu instructed.
He obeyed.
"Spine straight. Knees grounded."
He settled into position.
"Place both palms flat against the earth."
He did.
"Now listen carefully. Orthodox cultivators gather qi into the dantian and refine it into essence. You cannot."
"I am aware."
"Do not interrupt."
He made a small gesture of surrender.
"The Canon does not gather. It compresses."
"Compresses what?"
"Yourself."
He waited.
"You will use breath and muscular contraction to create internal pressure. That pressure will stimulate microfractures within bone structure."
He frowned slightly.
"That sounds identical to injury."
"It is controlled injury."
"And if uncontrolled?"
"You will not need to worry about future chapters."
He gave her a flat look.
"Encouraging."
She ignored him.
"Inhale slowly. Draw breath down the spine. On the hold, contract every major muscle group simultaneously."
"That is inefficient."
"It is intentional."
He inhaled.
Held.
Then tightened.
Neck.
Shoulders.
Chest.
Abdomen.
Back.
Thighs.
Calves.
Everything.
Pain lanced through him immediately.
"Hold."
His vision flickered.
"Release."
He exhaled sharply, muscles loosening.
A dull ache spread deep within his bones.
Again.
He repeated.
By the fifth repetition, sweat soaked his back.
By the tenth, his arms trembled violently.
"Your left shoulder compensates too much," Qingyu said.
"I carried firewood with it for years."
"Balance it."
He adjusted.
Compressed again.
On the twelfth repetition, something shifted.
A faint internal crack.
Not loud.
But distinct.
He sucked in air.
"Rib," she observed calmly. "Minor fissure."
"You sound pleased."
"It means adaptation has begun."
He almost laughed.
"You are ruthless."
"Pain is data."
He clenched his jaw and continued.
By the twentieth compression, blood coated his tongue.
By the thirtieth, his body shook uncontrollably.
"Stop."
He collapsed sideways onto the earth.
The world tilted briefly.
He lay there breathing hard, staring at the pale morning sky.
"Report," Qingyu said.
"Bones feel like stone filled with sand."
"Good."
He barked a short laugh.
"Good?"
"You have begun compressive adaptation. Over weeks, density will increase."
"Weeks?"
"Years."
He closed his eyes.
"I see."
He rested only a short while.
Then Qingyu spoke again.
"Stand."
He groaned but rose.
"You will now align blood rhythm."
"Explain."
"You survived winter immersion, yes?"
"Yes."
"You trained your body to endure cold shock."
"Yes."
"This is similar. You will regulate heart rate consciously."
He narrowed his eyes.
"That is not possible."
"It is."
She paused.
"Place your hand over your heart."
He did.
"Slow your breathing until your heartbeat matches inhalation length."
He focused.
Breath in.
Breath out.
At first, nothing.
Then gradually—
His pulse responded.
Slightly.
"Good," she murmured.
"Now increase heartbeat without increasing breath."
"That is impossible."
"Try."
He tightened his abdominal muscles slightly while maintaining slow breathing.
His pulse jumped.
Unstable.
He steadied it.
Again.
Again.
Sweat dripped down his neck.
Minutes passed.
Finally—
He achieved something strange.
His heart beat faster.
But his breathing remained slow.
The sensation was disorienting.
"This will allow you to redirect blood pressure during compression stages," Qingyu explained.
"And if I fail?"
"Rupture."
He sighed.
"You enjoy that word."
"It is accurate."
By midday, Shen An could barely stand.
His muscles throbbed.
His ribs ached.
Yet beneath the pain—
Something subtle vibrated.
Not qi.
Not warmth.
A faint internal resonance.
"Sit again," Qingyu said quietly.
"This is the immortal fragment."
He steadied himself.
Closed his eyes.
"The Heaven-Defying Mortal Ascension Canon establishes the Origin Pulse behind the heart."
"How?"
"Through repeated compression and breath redirection."
"Into marrow?"
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"I remember this part more clearly."
"Then speak."
"The Origin Pulse forms when blood, breath, and consciousness converge at a single spinal node."
"Location."
"Tenth vertebra region."
He visualized it.
"Focus your awareness there."
He did.
"Now perform three compressions—but direct pressure inward, not outward."
He inhaled.
Contracted.
Instead of bracing muscles outward, he imagined force collapsing toward the center of his spine.
Pain exploded.
He nearly cried out.
"Hold."
He held.
His vision whitened.
"Release."
He gasped as he exhaled.
For a brief instant—
A pulse.
Tiny.
Like the faintest drumbeat inside his back.
He froze.
"You felt it," Qingyu said.
"Yes."
"That is the beginning."
He remained still.
Not daring to move.
The pulse faded quickly.
But he knew it had existed.
"That was not qi," he whispered.
"No."
"It was… me."
"Yes."
He opened his eyes slowly.
A strange expression crossed his face.
Not joy.
Not relief.
Recognition.
"I do not need heaven to validate my existence," he murmured.
Qingyu did not answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was softer.
"No."
He picked her up again, studying the jade glow.
"Qingyu."
"Yes?"
"If I die from this Canon."
"Yes?"
"You will have wasted thousands of years sleeping."
"…You speak too much."
He smirked faintly.
"You asked me to name you. Now you must endure me."
She hummed irritably.
"You are excessively verbal for someone who lived alone."
"I am compensating."
"That is inefficient."
"It is enjoyable."
Silence.
Then—
"…Very well."
The second compression cycle was worse.
His rib fissure deepened slightly.
His thigh muscles cramped violently.
At one point, he fell forward, striking his forehead against stone.
Blood trickled down.
He wiped it away without comment.
"Adjust stance," Qingyu instructed.
"You are leaning."
He corrected.
Another compression.
This time—
The internal pulse flickered again.
Slightly stronger.
He gritted his teeth.
"Again."
"You will collapse."
"Yes."
He performed three more.
On the final one—
Something changed.
The pulse did not fade instantly.
It lingered.
Two beats.
Three.
Then vanished.
He fell backward, chest heaving.
The forest canopy above swayed gently.
"Report," Qingyu said.
"There is… something there."
"Yes."
"Small."
"Yes."
"But stable."
"For now."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I will build it."
"You speak with certainty."
"I survived nine winters."
"…That is statistically improbable."
He laughed.
Not short.
Not forced.
A real, low laugh.
The sound startled even him.
Qingyu went silent.
After a moment, she asked quietly,
"What was that?"
He inhaled once.
"Laughter."
"I remember that word."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
She paused.
"…It is better than silence."
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Yes."
The sun dipped low, staining the forest in amber.
Shen An sat at the cave entrance, bruised and aching.
Yet beneath the pain—
The faintest hum persisted near his spine.
Not visible.
Not radiant.
But real.
"I will require increased food intake," Qingyu said.
"I hunt tomorrow."
"You will require protein."
"I am not livestock."
"Then behave like an apex predator."
He rolled his eyes.
"You are bossy."
"You are stubborn."
"Balanced partnership."
"Unfortunate contract."
He leaned back against the stone wall.
"I am no longer chasing qi," he said quietly.
"No."
"I am building something that is mine."
"Yes."
He looked out at the forest.
"For nine years, I survived."
"And now?"
"Now I cultivate."
The wind shifted softly.
The forest did not react to golden light or thunderous breakthrough.
There was no explosion.
No dramatic aura.
Only a fifteen-year-old mortal sitting at the mouth of a cave—
Body bruised.
Spine aching.
A faint pulse behind his heart beginning to form.
He glanced down at Qingyu.
"Tomorrow."
"Yes?"
"We compress again."
"…You are unreasonable."
He smiled faintly.
"I am Heaven-Defying."
The jade bowl glowed softly in the fading light.
And deep within his spine—
The Origin Pulse answered once.
Very faintly.
But undeniably.