Bai Xuan studied her for a long moment, blue eyes sharp and assessing—no longer amused, no longer teasing. Something ancient stirred in his gaze.
"Good," he said at last. "That is the correct question."
He slid down from her shoulders and settled on the grass before her, coiling neatly. The spirit garden seemed to respond to the shift in his intent. The air grew still. The faint medicinal scent deepened, rich and grounding.
"Sit," he instructed.
Yueying did so immediately, folding her legs beneath her without hesitation. The motion felt natural—balanced in a way her body had never allowed before.
"Close your eyes," Bai Xuan said. "And do not force anything. Medicine does not begin with dominance. It begins with listening."
She obeyed.
At first, there was only darkness behind her eyelids. Then, slowly, sensation returned—not pain, not heat, but awareness. A subtle sense of space inside her chest and abdomen, as if she were becoming conscious of rooms she had lived in all her life without ever opening the doors.
"Breathe," Bai Xuan continued. "As you would normally. Do not guide it. Observe it."
Yueying inhaled.
The breath traveled deeper than she expected, sinking low into her abdomen before rising again. With it came a faint warmth—not burning, not sharp, but alive. It drifted through her like a current, gentle but unmistakable.
Her pulse quickened.
"That sensation," Bai Xuan said calmly, "is qi. Weak, scattered, undeveloped—but present. It always was."
Her brow furrowed. Always?
"Yes," he added, answering the thought without prompting. "Even when your body was restrained. Even when you could not speak. It was merely unable to move."
A quiet anger flared in her chest—but she let it pass. This was not the time.
"Now," Bai Xuan said, "you will not attempt to circulate it."
She stiffened slightly. "I won't?"
"No," he replied firmly. "Heaven-Defying Doctor does not begin by commanding qi. It begins by refining perception."
The words settled over her, familiar in a way she hadn't expected. In her past life, she had learned the same principle in different language: observe before you intervene.
"You will learn the pathways later," Bai Xuan continued. "Meridians, nodes, reservoirs. But first, you must understand your own baseline. Every deviation. Every irregularity."
She breathed again, slower this time.
The warmth responded, faintly gathering—not moving with purpose, but no longer dispersing either. It was as if her attention alone gave it shape.
Her eyes flew open.
"I can feel it," she said quietly. "It's… responding."
Bai Xuan's gaze sharpened with approval.
"Good," he said. "That is the first step—awareness. Most cultivators are too eager to push. They flood their bodies with qi like a raging river and call it progress."
His tail flicked once, disdainful.
"They become strong quickly," he continued, "and they break just as quickly."
Yueying swallowed, the warmth in her abdomen still faintly present, like a small ember she was afraid to disturb.
"So what do I do instead?" she asked.
Bai Xuan lifted his head. "You refine."
At her puzzled look, he continued more slowly, as if choosing words she could grasp.
"Heaven-Defying Doctor is not a method for those who crave explosions of power. It is for healers—people who must touch what is delicate without destroying it."
He glided forward a little, then gestured with the tip of his tail toward the herb beds nearby.
"Look," he said.
Yueying's gaze followed. The spirit garden's plants were unfamiliar, but she could tell by instinct that some were tender, others hardy—thin leaves trembling in the breeze beside thicker stalks that barely moved.
Bai Xuan did not answer immediately.
Instead, he turned and began to move through the spirit garden, his pale body slipping soundlessly between the herbs. As he passed, some leaves trembled faintly, as though reacting to his presence alone.
"Powerful cultivators believe size is everything," he said at last. "The greater the flow, the greater the might. They flood their bodies with qi and call it mastery."
He stopped and looked back at her.
"But what happens when the path is narrow?" he asked. "When the passage is damaged, twisted, or barely intact?"
Yueying's gaze dropped to her own hands.
"In those cases," Bai Xuan continued, "power becomes a curse."
He lifted his head slightly, eyes intent. "Heaven-Defying Doctor exists for moments like that. It teaches you to compress qi—not to make it stronger, but to make it obedient."
She frowned faintly, listening.
"When your qi is refined to the width of a single hair," he went on, "you can move it without disturbing what surrounds it. You can guide it along fragile channels. You can pass through blockages others would destroy."
Her breath slowed.
She could picture it—instinctively. The way she once threaded catheters through vessels barely wide enough to allow passage. The way steady hands mattered more than force.
"So it's not about overwhelming the body," she said quietly. "It's about… precision."
Bai Xuan inclined his head. "Exactly."
He glided closer again, stopping just in front of her. "In time, you will learn to send your qi into another person—slowly, gently. You will repair where others amputate. Restore where others abandon."
The weight of that settled over her, heavy and sobering.
"And that's why," he added, "your refinement begins here. Not with circulation. Not with expansion."
He tapped the ground lightly with the tip of his tail.
"But with restraint."
Yueying exhaled, long and steady.
This was not the cultivation she had imagined—violent breakthroughs, roaring power, shattering stone.
It was quieter.
More demanding.
"I understand," she said at last.
Bai Xuan studied her for a moment, then nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Then return to the warmth you felt earlier."
She closed her eyes again.
The faint ember of qi was still there, hovering low in her abdomen. This time, she did not try to shape it. She simply watched it—felt its edges, its instability, the way it trembled when her focus wavered.
"Do not compress it yet," Bai Xuan instructed softly. "Learn its nature first. Every person's qi is different."
The ember flickered.
Yueying breathed.
For the first time, she did not feel rushed.
Whatever waited for her outside—her family, her sister, the world that had once crushed her into silence—could wait a little longer.
Here, in the quiet of her own spiritual sea, she was finally learning how to move without breaking.
Bai Xuan shifted closer.
Yueying felt it before she saw it—the faint brush of cool against warmth—as the tip of his tail pressed gently against her lower abdomen, just above her navel. The contact was light, almost ceremonial, yet her whole body stilled in response.
"Do not absorb," Bai Xuan said quietly. "And do not follow yet."
Her instinct flared immediately, the ember of qi reacting to the external touch, eager—almost hungry—to draw inward. She clenched her fingers against her knees, fighting the reflex.
"Just watch," he continued. "And remember."
A cool pressure spread from where his tail rested, not forceful, but insistent. The ember of qi responded—not swelling, not surging—but stretching, drawn out into something thinner, finer. Yueying's breath caught as the warmth elongated, pulled into a narrow stream no wider than a thread.
It moved.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The thread slipped upward, tracing a path through her body she had never been aware of before. It did not rush. It did not push. It followed—sliding along a hidden channel with uncanny precision, curving gently past points that felt tight or unfamiliar, bypassing others entirely.
Yueying's awareness sharpened instinctively.
She could feel where the path narrowed. Where it widened. Where it trembled, unstable, as if unused for far too long.
"This," Bai Xuan murmured, "is circulation without domination. A healer's path."
The thread of qi moved through her torso, split briefly into two finer strands, then rejoined, continuing upward before sinking back down again in a smooth, unbroken loop.
Her heart was pounding—but not with fear.
With recognition.
When the qi finally settled back into her abdomen, the pressure of Bai Xuan's tail eased.
"Do you see?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed.
Her eyes flew open.
The ember was still there—but changed. Calmer. More cohesive. As if it remembered what it had just done.
"Good," Bai Xuan said. He withdrew his tail. "Now try."
Yueying swallowed.
She closed her eyes again and focused.
She remembered the path—every subtle curve, every place the qi had thinned, every place it had avoided. Carefully, she nudged the warmth, attempting to draw it into a thread.
It wavered.
The qi thickened instead, swelling unevenly. A sharp discomfort flared in her chest.
She gasped and immediately let go.
The warmth scattered.
"Too much intent," Bai Xuan said calmly. "Again."
She tried once more—slower this time.
The qi thinned briefly… then snapped back, dispersing like mist.
Her jaw tightened.
Again.
This time the thread formed—but the moment she tried to guide it forward, it veered off course, bumping clumsily against an unseen boundary. Pain spiked sharply behind her eyes.
She broke concentration with a hiss.
Frustration rose hot and fast—but she forced it down.
Observe before you intervene.
She breathed.
Again.
Minutes passed—or maybe longer. Time felt different here. Each attempt ended the same way: the qi either scattered or surged too thickly, resisting refinement.
Her back was damp with sweat when she tried again.
This time, she didn't push.
She remembered Bai Xuan's tail. The gentleness of the pressure. The way the qi had moved not because it was forced—but because it was invited.
She breathed in.
The ember responded.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, it stretched—thinning, narrowing, refining until it trembled on the edge of cohesion.
Yueying held her breath.
The thread moved.
Barely.
It traced the beginning of the path—just a fraction of the distance before wavering—
—and then it slipped forward, smooth and unbroken.
Her eyes flew open.
"I—I did it," she whispered.
The qi completed the loop and settled back into her abdomen, faint but intact.
Bai Xuan's eyes gleamed.
"Again," he said. "Once is coincidence. Twice is memory."
She nodded, chest tight with something dangerously close to joy.
Again.
This time, the thread formed more easily.
Again.
The path grew clearer.
Again.
The qi flowed—slow, thin, obedient.
When she finally opened her eyes, the ember within her no longer felt scattered or weak. It was small, yes—but stable. Refined. Present.
Bai Xuan regarded her for a long moment.
"…You truly are suited for this," he said quietly.
Bai Xuan did not move away.
Instead, he circled her once, slow and deliberate, as if examining a finished draft before allowing ink to set.
"Good," he said at last. "You have learned how to move qi."
Yueying exhaled, shoulders loosening slightly.
"But moving is not cultivating," Bai Xuan continued. "Up until now, you have only been borrowing what already exists within you—guiding it, refining it, teaching it obedience."
His blue eyes fixed on her.
"Now," he said, "you will take the next step."
Her breath stilled.
"You will absorb."
The word sent a ripple of anticipation through her body. Instinct stirred again, sharper this time, no longer wild but focused—like a held breath waiting for release.
"Listen carefully," Bai Xuan said. "Absorption without control destroys foundations. Control without absorption leads nowhere. Heaven-Defying Doctor requires balance between the two."
He coiled neatly before her once more.
"You will draw qi from the spirit garden," he instructed. "Not greedily. Not all at once. Thread by thread."
Yueying nodded.
She closed her eyes.
At once, she became aware of it—the world beyond her skin. The faint, omnipresent vitality saturating the island. It was everywhere: in the grass beneath her, the herbs swaying gently nearby, the air itself humming with quiet life.
She inhaled.
This time, when she reached outward, she did not seize.
She opened.
A whisper of qi brushed against her awareness, tentative. She guided it inward along the path she had memorized, compressing it gently, refining it until it narrowed—no wider than a hair's breadth—before letting it slip into her abdomen.
Warmth bloomed.
Not burning. Not violent.
Welcoming.
Her breath steadied.
Again.
Another thread followed, then another. Each one refined before entry, merging seamlessly with the ember already within her. The warmth grew, but evenly—layered, controlled.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
The spirit garden responded subtly as she continued. Leaves trembled faintly. The air pulsed in slow rhythm with her breath. Qi flowed toward her not in a rush, but in a patient stream, as if recognizing her restraint.
Sweat dampened her temples.
Her abdomen felt full—not heavy, but dense, like a coiled spring held carefully in place. The ember expanded into something more defined, rotating slowly as refined qi settled around it.
An hour passed.
Perhaps more.
Then—
Something shifted.
A soft pressure built deep within her, not painful but insistent. The refined qi within her dantian began to resonate, threads aligning, tightening, spiraling inward toward a single point.
Her brow furrowed.
"Do not stop," Bai Xuan said quietly. "And do not rush."
She breathed through it.
The pressure intensified.
Then—
Click.
The sensation was subtle, almost anticlimactic. A feeling like a lock sliding open, followed by a sudden clarity that swept through her body.
The refined qi surged—not outward, but into place.
Warmth flooded her limbs. Her meridians thrummed softly, no longer dormant or strained, but awake—responsive in a way that made her gasp.
Her eyes flew open.
The spirit garden seemed brighter. Sharper. Every color more distinct, every sound clearer. She could feel her heartbeat with astonishing precision. Feel the qi within her body circulating naturally, smoothly, without resistance.
Bai Xuan smiled.
"Congratulations," he said. "You have stepped into the Foundation Realm."
Her breath caught.
"I… I did it?" she asked, voice trembling—not from weakness, but from disbelief.
"Yes," he replied calmly. "First level of the Foundation Realm. Your foundation is small, but exceptionally refined."
She looked down at her hands.
They felt the same.
And yet—entirely different.
"I'm a cultivator," she whispered.
The words settled into her bones, real and undeniable.
Bai Xuan inclined his head. "You are."
A quiet, profound satisfaction spread through her chest. Not triumph. Not arrogance.
Certainty.
For the first time since arriving in this world—since waking up in a body that had been silenced and restrained—she was no longer powerless.
This was only the beginning.
And she had built it herself, thread by thread.