Two weeks passed.
Hu Yumei trained alone in the forested ridges behind Qinghe village.
Each day she practiced the core cleansing technique her father had taught her—a process demanding precise control of qi and formidable mental strength. First, she drew qi into her dantian, allowing it to pool and saturate her core. Then, she compressed it inward using focused will, pressing the energy until it became dense, refined, and unbearable. That pressure forced black impurities from her core, pushing them outward in wisps that clumped into sluggish, tar-like residue. With her mental strength, she scraped and scrubbed each impurity away, sweeping it clear from the edges of her inner sea. It was grueling. It left her drained, shivering, and aching—but stronger each day.
She also practiced harmonizing qi, mental force, and soul power—three energies that moved alike in pattern, but diverged in origin and impact. With one breath, she would draw in qi; with the next, summon mental focus until her thoughts felt like arrows; and in silence, she'd listen for the soul's subtle hum, fragile as mist. Cultivating them together was like tuning strings on three separate instruments—each resistant to alignment, but powerful in unity. Sometimes, she managed a flicker of harmony. Sometimes, she lost the whole day chasing it.
She layered this spiritual training atop physical discipline. She mixed old army drills into her routine: stance-holding, resistance sprints, terrain crawling. Every muscle movement was tethered to qi flow, breath, and anatomical awareness. The body was a sheath, she told herself. The mind was the hilt. And the soul—the blade.
The forest was serene, trees tall and whispering secrets in the wind. Her meditation mat was a flat stone beside a waterfall.
One morning, she attempted a new breathing technique. She sat still, gathering qi into her core—then sneezed.
A squirrel above dropped a pine cone on her head.
"Ow! That better not be a sign, Heaven!"
Another day, she stood on one foot atop a river stone, hands outstretched for balance.
Just as she reached spiritual focus, a passing goose honked, startling her. She toppled backward with a splash and emerged soaked, fuming.
"Fine!" she shouted. "I'll train wet!"
At night, while her parents slept, Yumei snuck into the kitchen and retrieved her mother's old federation phone—the one her mother rarely used except to ration coupons. Yumei connected to the cheapest netsphere plan she could find—fifty federation coins a month, barely enough for access without images. Still, it worked.
She spent quiet hours beneath her blanket, the light of the screen dimmed, searching terms like "increasing core purity," "mental strength qi training," and "soul-mind harmonization." Most results were fragmentary or paywalled, but every scrap mattered. One blog mentioned lotus-root powder used by an Eastern Sect to purify cores. Another described visualizing spiritual threads binding the three powers together during breath retention. She copied it all into her notebook in meticulous handwriting.
That notebook—worn leather, stuffed with folded scraps—held her observations, diagrams, questions, even her failures.
"Six mistakes today. One minor explosion. No broken bones. Improvement."
She looked up at the stars. In her past life, there were no stars—only drones, satellites, and surveillance grids.
Now, the heavens watched. And she would rise.
Before dawn broke, Hu Yumei stood at the edge of the village, where the last trees thinned and the sky opened wide.
The cold bit through her cloak, but she barely noticed. Her eyes traced the horizon, where the pale light whispered of new days and endless possibilities.
In her palm, the six-star spiritual root glowed faintly, a heartbeat in the dark. A secret too precious for whispers. A weapon. A hope.
She thought of the village—the stale traditions, the whispered deals behind closed doors, the heavy weight of expectation pressing down like stone. She was a fragment out of place, a soldier trapped in a child's shell, a flame flickering beneath brittle ice.
Her breath formed ghosts in the chilled air. She clenched her fists, feeling the stir of qi awaken like a restless spirit within her.
"Not today," she whispered. "Not yet."
And this time, she would not fail the wounded. Not even herself.
And with that, Hu Yumei turned back toward the forest, toward the silence where she could forge strength alone—where the future was hers to seize or lose.
⸻
Fan Hanji, Hu Yumei's uncle, returned today before sunset. His boots were dusted with crushed lavender, and his grin carried a rare stillness.
"I spoke with him," he said quietly, over a bowl of hot broth. "The Old Master agrees."
Hu Yumei straightened. Her father set his chopsticks down, his brow lifting slightly.
"He'll refine the herb?" Fan Yangwei asked.
Fan Hanji nodded. "More than that. He'll test her spirit core once it's awakened. He said… 'She may have a profession by blood or bone—and either way, the heavens will whisper it once the core is settled.'"
A thrill ran down Hu Yumei's spine. A profession. Not just any—her destined path. Cultivators were often guided by elemental affinity or soul structure: Healers, Refiners, Elementalists, Hunters, beast tamers and masters. But this? This would be hers.
Chosen not by her family or village, but by the Dao itself. All from her hard work.
"When?" Fan Yangwei asked.
"In the morning," Hanji said. "We leave before second bell. Two and a half days to town. We'll be gone a week, maybe more, if she needs time to recover after awakening."
Silence fell. Even the soup cooled between breaths.
Then: a soft sigh from Hu Yumei's father.
"All right," he said. "She should go."
⸻
Later that night, after Ka Sanni had gone to bed and Fan Hanji began sharpening his traveling knife outside, Hu Yumei padded into the back room. Her father lay on the summer mat, leg propped, staring at the dark beams above.
"I can't sleep," she murmured.
He turned his head. "Because you're excited, or scared?"
"…Both."
He shifted, patting the mat space beside him. "Come here."
She nestled down beside him, arms tucked beneath her chin. The air smelled of dust, tea leaves, and pine.
"You remember the first time I let you hold my bow?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "It was too big. I fell backwards."
"But you stood back up," he said. "Cracked lip and all."
⸻
One week ago, the wind had smelled like roasted barley and coming rain.
They were behind the house, just past the stone well, where wild 1 star ferns had begun creeping up the posts. Fan Yangwei had set up the old straw dummy, half-collapsed, and laid his bow—her bow, someday—across his lap.
"Left foot forward," he'd said, squinting past her shoulder. "Elbow high."
She'd gripped the bow with both hands, arms straining, the string trembling like it knew her fears. The second she released it, the bow kicked backward into her jaw. She landed flat on her back with a startled oof, mouth bloodied from her bitten lip.
For a moment, the world had gone still—until he knelt beside her, laughter crinkling his eyes.
"You okay?" he'd asked, holding out a calloused hand.
She'd stared at it.
Then—stood up without it.
Blood on her chin. Fire in her chest.
He hadn't said a word, but he'd smiled like he'd just seen the sun rise twice.
⸻
Now, lying side by side, Hu Yumei's smile deepened.
"I wasn't afraid of the pain," she said softly. "Just… disappointing you."
"You never have," he replied. "Even when you miss the mark."
They were quiet a while.
"I'm afraid I'll disappoint him," she whispered. "The Old Master. Or… you."
"You won't," he said firmly. "You couldn't. You don't have to be brilliant. Just be honest. Let whatever power comes speak to you, not for you."
He looked over and brushed a bit of her hair behind her ear. "And whatever profession you learn? Let it serve your spirit, not cage it."
He paused, then added gently, "Also, it's very common to only get one profession. You don't have to be dual-profession like me—I don't expect you to. Remember class doesn't matter. I'll be happy no matter what, or how many, professions you have."
Hu Yumei's throat tightened. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you more." He grinned. "But if Fan Hanji lets anything happen to you take your mothers old federation issued phone and call me , I'll come to the City on one leg and throw him into a river."
She giggled softly, and for a moment, she didn't feel like a soldier in a child's body.
She just felt like her father's little girl.