A week of whispers, a shadow of sickness began to creep through the hallowed halls of the Azure Cloud Sect.

—

Sun Dazhu returned to the garden, his face a thundercloud. The jibes of his brethren, a constant drizzle during his audience with the Sect Leader, still stung. *Just wait,* he fumed inwardly, *until I possess those gourds. I’ll distill their essence into a pill, a draught of power that will eclipse your meager talents. Then, let us see who laughs!*

He stomped into the garden, bellowing, “Wang Lin! From this day forth, you are my disciple! Dedicate yourself to the path of immortality, lest you shame your master!” He flung a small, unremarkable pouch at the boy’s feet. “Within lies the insignia of an inner disciple, and a bag of holding. It can contain much. Robes and the foundational techniques of our art are also within. See to it.”

Wang Lin snatched up the pouch, a thrill surging through him. His parents’ hopeful faces flashed in his mind. He could finally tread the path! He bowed deeply, his voice sincere. “Thank you, Master Sun Dazhu.”

Sun Dazhu grunted in acknowledgment, his eyes gleaming. “Henceforth, you shall dwell in the chamber behind. You are forbidden to leave without my express permission.”

With a flourish, he plucked a stone from the ground and hurled it at the garden gate. A flash of violet light erupted as the stone shattered, dissolving into shimmering dust that vanished on the breeze.

He cast a sardonic look at Wang Lin, then turned and disappeared into the house.

Wang Lin’s eyes widened, a cold understanding dawning within him. Clutching the pouch, he entered the assigned chamber. It was bare save for a simple bed. Wang Lin didn’t care. He sat down, turning the unremarkable gray pouch over in his hands.

There was nothing extraordinary about it. He upturned the pouch, and a few items tumbled out: a scarlet robe denoting an inner disciple, and a threadbare booklet bound in rough leather.

Joy surged through him. He seized the booklet, his fingers trembling with excitement. He opened it, and the first page proclaimed in stark characters:

“Three Chapters on Qi Condensation.”

He devoured the text late into the night, the flickering oil lamp casting long shadows on the wall. By the hour of the wolf, he possessed a rudimentary understanding of the path ahead. The three chapters spoke of the first three levels of Qi Condensation, the most basic of techniques. It was said that only upon mastering the third level could one access the methods for further advancement.

Qi Condensation, it explained, was the art of drawing upon the spiritual energies of the world, accumulating that power within one’s mortal frame, and thus laying the foundation for the path to immortality.

This was also the ultimate test of a cultivator’s inherent talent. Those blessed with potent spiritual roots would draw the energies with ease, their progress swift and sure. Those less fortunate might struggle for years, perhaps never surpassing the third level, or even the first.

To Wang Lin, the three chapters were a priceless treasure. He committed the first three layers of the technique to memory, closed his eyes, and began to breathe in the prescribed manner: one long inhalation, followed by three short exhalations. A rhythm that defied natural breath, but which was said to draw spiritual energy into the body with greater efficiency.

The booklet warned that the first attempts often brought a sensation like ants crawling beneath the skin. This was the sign of spiritual energy entering the body. One should not be alarmed, but instead relax the mind and body, imagining oneself becoming one with the world around.

After hours, Wang Lin was forced to admit defeat. He felt nothing, no tingle, no crawl, only a growing lightheadedness from the unnatural breathing.

He sighed. He knew that inner disciples were generally gifted, blessed with strong spiritual roots. This booklet was written for them. His own talents were, by his own admission, unremarkable. He could not hope to compare.

But he would not surrender. He rested a moment, then began to breathe again.

The night bled into dawn, and Wang Lin remained without sensation. Exhausted from a sleepless night, his head swimming, he rose from the bed, pushed open the door, and stepped outside.

A gentle breeze carried the pungent scent of herbs. He took a deep breath, the fatigue easing slightly. He yearned for the cool, clear water and the water hyacinths of the spring back home. A few sips would clear his head, restore his strength.

But he dared not risk a return, not yet. He was confident in the hiding place he had chosen for his mysterious beads and dew-kissed hyacinths. A remote spot found after weeks of searching, a place so well-hidden that even a chance passerby would never discover its secrets.

Wandering through the medicine garden, Wang Lin found a small clearing, sat cross-legged, and resumed his breathing exercises. After a time, a faint sensation, like the prickle of ants, flickered within him. He froze, a surge of elation coursing through him. But before he could pursue the feeling, Sun Dazhu’s voice boomed in his ears: “Wang Lin! What are you doing? Get out here! I forbid you from breathing in the medicine garden!”

Wang Lin opened his eyes and saw Sun Dazhu glaring at him, his face a mask of displeasure. Silently, he rose and left the garden.

Sun Dazhu scoffed. “You can find somewhere else, anywhere else! This medicine garden is thick with spiritual energy. You’ll suck it all away. If these precious herbs wither, your life won’t be enough to pay the compensation!”

Wang Lin glanced at Sun Dazhu and said respectfully, “I did not know, Master. I will not breathe here again.”

Sun Dazhu’s expression softened slightly. His eyes narrowed in thought. “But… if you could procure another gourd for me, I might consider… While I cannot allow you to cultivate within the Medicine Garden, I might grant you a low-grade spirit stone. With such a thing, your Qi Condensation will be much easier.”

Wang Lin lowered his gaze, a flicker of cynicism in his eyes. “Disciple can return to the mountain spring. If fate smiles, perhaps another gourd awaits.”

Sun Dazhu pondered for a moment, his eyes glinting. He nodded. “It is good to search. Remember this, boy: bring me another gourd, and I shall bestow upon you a low-grade spirit stone!”

Wang Lin looked up, meeting Sun Dazhu’s gaze. “Master is serious? If I bring back a gourd, you will give me a spirit stone?”

Sun Dazhu beamed. “Indeed! As soon as I lay eyes upon the gourd, the spirit stone is yours!”

Wang Lin sneered inwardly, but on the surface, he remained respectful. He nodded in agreement.

Sun Dazhu traced mystic symbols with his right hand, murmuring an incantation. With a flick of his wrist, the garden gate creaked open. He stroked his chin. “Go then, and return swiftly.”