It began with a flute. Or more precisely, with me butchering the art of playing one.
By the second hour, Yun Fei was pacing around the courtyard like a spirit beast in a cage. I blew another note—sharp, wheezing, utterly miserable.
She winced. "Husband, that flute is cursed."
"No, no," I grinned, adjusting my fingers. "I'm cursed with talent. It just hasn't awakened yet."
She stared at me. "You've been cursing my ears all day."
I played another squealing note. Yun Fei actually flinched and covered her ears. "Mercy, Changsheng! You're not taming a beast, you're strangling it!"
"That was my interpretation of a beast howl. Cultivation arts meet musical chaos."
She threw a peach at me. I caught it mid-air and bit into it with exaggerated elegance.
Later, while reclining under the peach tree with her head resting on my thigh, she muttered, "I never thought flute training could become marital suffering."
"Endure, wife. All geniuses go through a rough start."
"You're rough. That's the problem."
We laughed. The teasing never stopped with her—and I never wanted it to.
Mother called for me that evening. She wore her clan robes, hair tied up in a tight coil, spiritual pressure faint but focused. It was the same look she wore when breaking through the Foundation realm decades ago.
"I'll be going into seclusion," she said, eyes scanning me. "It may take months. It may take a few year."
I nodded. "For Jindan, it's worth it. We'll be waiting."
She stepped closer. "Changsheng… keep your heart steady. No matter how sweet the days feel, don't forget what path you've chosen."
I bowed deeply. "I won't forget, Mother."
Her hand hovered over my shoulder for a moment before she turned away. That was how she always showed affection—with restraint, but never without care.
The next day, I sat with Grandfather and Aunt Tianying in the study, a spread of scrolls and ledgers laid before us. We talked business.
"The robe shop's success has everyone excited," Tianying said. "The elders are proposing we convert more clan stores into boutique models."
I frowned. "That would be a mistake."
Grandfather raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
"The Spirit Needle Pavilion works because robes are personal, aesthetic, and tied to identity. That boutique model sells elegance and individuality. But spirit herbs? Ores? Talismans? They rely on function and volume. If we imitate the robe shop across the board, we risk killing profit for flair."
Mingyi smiled. "So what do you suggest?"
"Keep the robe and accessory stores special. Let them evolve. The others—we optimize, modernize, yes, but not copy."
Grandfather gave a small nod. "Spoken like someone who understands more than profit."
We played chess afterward. I lost two rounds, then finally beat him on the third, only because he was distracted arguing with Aunt Tianying about store placements.
Changjian didn't return—still out on some classified mission. Typical.
By the end of the week, I could play the flute.
Not just blow air and hope for mercy—but truly play. Yun Fei no longer fled the courtyard. She sat with me. Listened.
One evening, under lantern light, she said softly, "You weren't terrible today."
I held the flute to my lips. "High praise. Shall I reward you with a concert in bed?"
She gave me a look that could curdle spirit milk. "Try it, and I'll show you how this wife handles noise discipline."
It was a good night.
And the last, before I, too, entered seclusion.
To catch up with her. To walk beside her. And maybe, one day, play a song she wouldn't want to escape from.
Most cultivators begin with Qi Refinement. It's the stage of building control—circulating spiritual energy, nourishing the body, and expanding the meridians. It's the first step, but even at the ninth level of Qi Refinement, you're still just… potential.
Foundation Building is different.
It's not about controlling Qi—it's about becoming something new. Shattering the body's natural limits and rebuilding your spiritual core from the inside out. For most, it requires a Foundation Pill—a rare, precious alchemical product crafted from specific spirit herbs and Dao-aligned materials. Swallow it at the right moment, merge your Qi with your spirit root, and endure a trial of pain, insight, and change. If you survive, you're reborn.
But I won't need one.
My spiritual roots—twin-aligned with fire and water—reject traditional pills. They're opposites by nature, constantly repelling and attracting, forcing me to maintain a delicate balance. A Foundation Pill, even the best-crafted, would tip that balance and cause backlash. More importantly, pills are for those nearing sixty, or for cultivators who fear their own path won't hold. I'm seventeen. My body is ready. My will is steady. And my roots demand something different.
Foundation Building isn't just another level—it's transformation. In Qi Refinement, spiritual energy flows like gas: light, fast, intangible. You absorb it, circulate it, temper your organs, and slowly expand your meridians. But in Foundation Building, that energy thickens into a liquid essence. It pools in your dantian and becomes the base for all future cultivation. Your lifespan increases to 250. Your strength multiplies. You no longer borrow power from the world—you begin to shape it.
For someone like me, with dual elements in opposition, it's like balancing fire and water inside you while forging a new core. Every cycle of Qi must be exact. Every breath must align the internal opposites. One misstep, and I won't just fail—I'll destroy the vessel trying to hold it all.
But if I succeed—if I truly harmonize the fire and water within—then my Tao foundation won't just be stable. It will be something else entirely. Not imposed by pills or formulas.
So I sealed myself away.
And began to break myself apart.