The air was cool and still, heavy with the scent of lotus and flowing water. Moonlight danced across the rippling surface of the hidden river, a place forgotten by time, where the mortal realm's burdens thinned and dissolved like morning mist. Ganga moved with unhurried grace, cradling the infant Devavrata against her chest. His small form was warm and alive, but fragile as a newly unfurled lotus blossom.
The river whispered around them, wrapping like a protective veil as they glided deeper into the sacred realm where water and spirit were one.
Ganga lifted her hands above the water, and the river answered. Currents spiraled and danced at her fingertips, glowing with silvery light. With a whispered chant in the language of the ancients, she summoned a cascade of sparkling droplets, each shimmering with condensed Qi — a silent hymn of creation and destruction intertwined. The river itself seemed to pulse in tune with her heartbeat, a living extension of her will. Devavrata's tiny fingers twitched as the sacred energy brushed his skin — a baptism of power from the mother of waters.
"Sleep now, my little one," Ganga murmured, her voice a melody as fluid as the current. "Here, you will find strength beyond the mortal world, and I will teach you to flow with the Dao's eternal rhythm."
Devavrata stirred, his eyes blinking open—deep pools of storm-grey, reflecting the shimmering stars above. In that gaze lay the promise of untold power, and the weight of a destiny no child should bear.
From his fifth year, Ganga taught Devavrata that strength did not come from force, but from harmony with the world's eternal rhythms.
"Close your eyes, Devavrata," she whispered one morning, as the mist curled like smoke above the water. "Feel the river's breath. It is more than water — it is the lifeblood of the earth, the pulse of the cosmos."
The boy obeyed, sitting cross-legged on the smooth stones of the riverbank. His chest rose and fell as he mimicked her slow, even breaths.
"Breathe in the river's calm," Ganga said softly. "Hold it, let it settle inside you. And then release it gently — like the river letting go of morning mist."
His small face was scrunched in concentration, his young mind reaching beyond childish play into the profound silence of spirit. The lotus mark shimmered faintly with each breath.
"You see, my son," she said, brushing water droplets from his brow, "the river is never still, yet it is never forced. It flows where it must, yielding to stones and roots, but carving mountains over time."
Devavrata looked up at her with wide, storm-grey eyes. "Like me?"
"Yes," she smiled. "You will learn to flow like the river. To bend without breaking. And to carry your burden with the quiet strength of the tides."
Ganga often spoke in parables of water's lessons; teaching Devavrata that cultivation was more than raw power or brute force. Her words shaped Devavrata's understanding early, planting seeds for the patient mastery he would need for the trials ahead.
That night when Devavrata was Eight years old, under the light of twin moons, Ganga led him to a secluded pool where the river stilled into crystalline clarity.
"Today, we will begin with body Refinement," she said, her voice like ripples over still water. "Before River Qi flows within you, your vessel must be made worthy."
She gestured, and the water around his feet stirred. The air thickened, as if time itself slowed.
"Body Refinement," she intoned, "is the tempering of mortal flesh—muscle, bone, and blood. You must align your body with the rhythm of nature. Pain is the first gate. Endure it, and your vitality will exceed mortal bounds."
Devavrata stood waist-deep in the sacred water as a chill crept into his bones. Every drop carried weight, pressure—not from gravity, but from something deeper. The River Qi coiled and whispered through the current, testing him. His muscles cramped. His breath caught. His heart pounded like a war drum.
He wanted to scream. But he remembered her words: "Pain is the first gate."
So, he clenched his fists, grit his teeth, and withstood the torrent. Why must the river be so relentless? Why do my muscles scream? A flicker of doubt surfaced—was he truly meant for this path, or was he chasing a dream beyond reach?
As Devavrata struggled against the weight of pain, Ganga knelt beside him, her palm hovering just above his chest. She wove delicate threads of River Qi, cool and soothing, into his veins — a healing current that eased the sharp sting of muscle and bone. Her eyes gleamed with focused intensity, reflecting the flowing light of the sacred waters. "Let the river carry your pain," she said, voice steady as the tide. "But never let it drown your spirit."
When he finally collapsed into the shallows, gasping, Ganga smiled for the first time in days.
"Your spirit may yet awaken."
That night, fever wrapped around Devavrata like a coiled serpent. His limbs burned, not with fire, but with a strange, pulsing cold. Every heartbeat was a thunderclap in his ears. His breath slowed, shallowed, until even Ganga's silhouette beside him blurred into the starlight.
Then—something shifted.
A stillness, deeper than silence. As though the world had stopped to listen.
Inside his chest, beneath flesh and bone, he felt it.
A pulse.
A current.
A whisper.
River Qi.
It wasn't just water. It was a memory. Motion. The echo of a thousand floods, the breath of monsoons, the tears of gods. It flowed through him—not blood, not spirit, but Essence. Aqueous and eternal.
His mind slipped inward, through unseen pathways. Meridian lines lit within his body, faint as starlight under water. One by one, they awakened.
Then—crack.
Not of bone. Not of stone.
Something inside him… opened.
A lotus of silver-blue light unfurled at the center of his being.
Ganga's voice came through, clear and quiet:
"Your Spirit Root is now awakened. The Celestial Meridian has accepted the current. You are no longer merely flesh."
Devavrata's eyes snapped open. The stars above burned with fierce light. The river's pulse thrummed beneath his skin. His heartbeat aligned with the very rhythm of the world.
For the first time, he wasn't afraid.
He was… becoming.
Days passed in a dance of water and light and now Devavrata was almost Eleven years old. Ganga was both mother and master, her lessons weaving through the mundane and the mystical.
One afternoon, Devavrata darted beneath the river's surface, chasing fish that flickered like living flames. His laughter rang out clear and bright, like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Ganga watched him quietly, her eyes glowing with gentle warmth and endless love.
"Mother," the boy called, emerging from the water with a triumphant grin, "I caught one! See?" His heart swelled with pride.
She clapped her hands softly. "Well done, my fierce little river spirit. But remember, to catch the fish, you must first understand its dance."
She gestured toward the river's flow, swift yet unpredictable.
"Patience, Devavrata. The river teaches patience."
The boy pouted but nodded, sitting by her side as she began a new lesson. Patience felt like a heavy stone pressing on his chest. How long before the river revealed its secrets? Was he destined to be a boy forever chasing fleeting shadows beneath the water's surface?
"Now, we train your body as well as your spirit."
Ganga did not coddle. She taught with silence, with current, with pain. Stones were tied to his arms, to his ankles. "The river teaches through resistance," she said. "Your body must learn to listen before it dares to speak. This resistance is more than just weight; it forges your spirit like iron in a blacksmith's fire. Each ache and strain strengthen the hidden pathways inside you where your life force—your Qi—flows."
The body was the vessel for the spirit. Without a strong vessel, even the mightiest energy would scatter and weaken. The river's currents shaped not only his muscles but also the invisible pathways that carried his inner power.
Muscles tore and regrew. Bones groaned and strengthened. Each tremor in his stance was sanded down by ritual, each breath shaped by determination. Through this tempering, Devavrata surpassed what a mortal boy should endure. Pain became a companion, not an obstacle. His vitality surged, his endurance thickened like oaken bark.
By his twelfth year, he no longer merely stood in the river—he communed with it. This communion was a silent conversation—energy flowing between the river and his soul, each ripple a message, each breath a response. It was a bond that few mortals could hear, let alone speak.
His breath deepened. His senses sharpened. The river communed with him through ripples and rhythm, and he whispered back without words. He had entered Qi Gathering. Qi Gathering is the art of drawing in the world's hidden energy—like breathing in the river's very essence. It's what allows cultivators to transcend the limits of flesh and reach harmony with nature itself.