Transform jin

"Energy's like a river—wild unless you steer it. Focus turns it into a chisel, shaping mountains. Lose that focus, and it's just mist. But with purpose? It carves canyons.

Strength isn't about brute force anymore. It's fluid, like water slipping through cracks. You don't break the rock; you wear it down, grain by grain."

"Qi's not something to wrestle. It's a dance partner. You lead, it follows. Thought and energy sync, and suddenly, the world's clay in your hands.

True power isn't in the clash. It's in the quiet—the strike that's already happened in your mind before your fist moves."

"Transform Jin isn't a roar. It's a whisper. Energy bends, redirects, becomes something new. It's the art of outlasting, not overpowering.

With every breath, I become one with the qi. It is no longer 'mine,' but the world's, moving through me."

When the breakthrough hit, it wasn't fireworks. It was the slow simmer of broth finally rich; the moment dough becomes bread. His body hummed, reflexes sharpening until time itself seemed to slow down in senses. Bullets? They'd crawl past him now.

He is pretty sure this time effect may only appear in heated fights or life and death battles for other practitioners but for him, it was ever present. He could stretch a second of conscious presence into many moments in time. It wasn't any fancy immortal technique but life level sublimated and crossed certain threshold coupled with enlightened mind.

Instead of suppressing external forces, he can now redirect and control both internal and external energies. Every movement thrummed with Dao rhythm—no longer rare epiphanies, but steady as his pulse. Channeling Qi felt like breathing. Effortless. What once took sweat and grit now flowed like a song he'd memorized.

He devoured the medicinal stews he'd stockpiled—bitter roots, ginseng, bone broths—converting each bite into life essence. It wasn't glamorous. Just work. He stabilized his realm, converged his aura overflowing and slowly returned home.

As the size and quality of internal energy within him increased due to break through, he crossed a certain threshold to rhyme with the dao ever-present. It meant that martial arts attained a spiritual nature. Since the way of dao forms the techniques for him, the change was very big. The cultivation speed drastically increased and it could be applied every time with minimum aura fluctuations.

The biggest shift came quietly, during free period in class time. Two boys scuffled by the windows—a routine clash over stolen gym shoes. Han Chen watched absently, chin propped on his hand, until the loser hit the floor.

That's when he saw it: a ripple of white and orange light around the boy's hunched shoulders. No one else flinched. No gasps. Just Han Chen, frozen mid-yawn, as the colors pulsed like a heartbeat.

By the time the teacher stormed in, the hues had shifted—streaks of anxious yellow, defensive blue. Han Chen earned punishment for "daydreaming," but he hardly cared. For the rest of the week, he catalogued the phenomenon:

Red flickered around Zhao Lin during lunch, sharp as knife sparks when he boasts and expresses anger and excitement. Mint-green haloed Xu Qing when she laughed, softening her edges. The stoic class monitor? Her aura burned crimson every time she was angered.

It wasn't divine sense—not truly. That required Foundation Building, and he was centuries away. No, this was something… spliced. A bastard child of his immortal consciousness and mortal reflexes. Emotions made visible.

At first, it fascinated him. He tested limits, nudging his spirit will until the classroom drowned in a kaleidoscope of hues. Ten colors became a hundred, then thousands—a sensory tsunami. For one vertigo-soaked minute, the world was static, every whispered crush and buried jealousy screaming at once. He reeled it back, breathless, temples throbbing. Control came easier after that, due to his heaven defying comprehension.

The downside? Mystery died.

Admirers might as well have worn neon signs. The class leader's icy glare at him couldn't hide her pink-gold longing. Even Xu Qing's casual hellos bled lavender wistfulness. Worse, some boys radiated the same heat—a revelation that sent Han Chen retreating into headphones and half-hearted nods.

"Who pissed in his congee?" Fan Qing muttered as Han Chen ghosted past another lunch invite. They didn't understand. How could they? To them, he was just… different now. The body refinement subtly progressed due to the spiritual nature of martial arts, and he had become increasing fair and handsome looking over the months.

He was practically unrecognizable from the previous lazy persona. Paler. Sharper-jawed. The lazy slouch replaced by a posture that made teachers straighten their own spines. Girls sighed over his mystery; boys resented how effortlessness outshone their designer hoodies in attracting attention.

Senior year rolled in, and Han Chen? Just calm. Unperturbed. Girls sighed; boys seethed.

At lunch, though? All bets were off. He ate like a starved wolf, clearing trays while classmates gawked. "Dude, save some for the rest of us!" they'd joke, half-relieved he wasn't perfect.

But how could he explain? Food wasn't pleasure—it was fuel. Every grain of rice, every scrap of meat, became Qi. Mortal cravings? They'd faded millennia ago.

Xu Qing noticed his changes. She'd linger by his desk, trying to resurrect their old banter, but his answers were polite voids. Han Chen had no plan to entangle with her anymore. Besides how do you chat about math homework when you've arranged galaxies once?

As his strength progressed, he got rid of the weak mentality that haunted him. Han Chen moved through the halls of his high school like a ghost in a museum --present but detached, observing relics of a life he'd outgrown centuries ago. These classmates, with their crushes and cliques, were mayflies to a man who'd lived a million years.

He'd shared battlefields with comrades who'd bled beside him for millennia; how could locker-room banter compare? He offered polite nods, basic courtesy, nothing more. He spent time in silent cultivation. Xu Qing had tried to bridge the gap once again, but now no theatrics. Now they passed each other as strangers.

Enter Zhao Lin.

Xu Qing's new shadow was everything Han Chen wasn't brash, entitled, dripping with generational wealth. To Zhao Lin, Han Chen's calm was a personal insult. Five grudges festered: Xu Qing's old crush on Han Chen, indifference, the quiet awe Han Chen commanded without trying, and day by day becoming more and more handsome, being the top student in every exam.

Zhao Lin's revenge was petty but persistent. He ambushed Han Chen with invitations—basketball games, karaoke nights, group hikes—each a trap masquerading as camaraderie.

"Can't," Han Chen would say, "Migraine." Or, "Need to study for exams." Once, bafflingly: "My bonsai needs repotting."

The excuses were absurd but disarming. Worse, Han Chen's avoidance felt… intentional. Like he'd vanish from a room seconds before Zhao Lin entered, leaving only the faintest chill. Feeling discontent, Han Chen once just stared at him. From then onwards, whenever their gazes locked, Zhao Lin's throat tightened. Han Chen's stare wasn't hostile—just ancient, like staring into a well that echoed back with the weight of drowned cities. It left Zhao Lin fumbling, sweating through his uniform shirts for the every time.

He'd tried to expose Han Chen's "secret" martial arts prowess, siccing his Ming Jin bodyguard on him to subtly inspect. The thug returned confused: "Kid's softer than a rice pudding. No Qi. No nothin'." But Zhao Lin knew better. He'd seen the way stray cats froze when Han Chen passed, how rain seemed to never wet his skin.

Yet modern laws shackled martial artists; CCTV cameras haunted every corner making Han Chen irritated about this haunting ghost. But later on he felt content in playing ordinary.

So this continued forever since then, any ill intent Zhao Lin had was like a colourful bulb lit over his face by sensing through intent sight.

There are strict laws governing martial artists attacking normal people openly so, even then, any attempt at meeting Han Chen by Zhao Lin always windup in places with full surveillance for some reason.

Let the boy play sherlock Holmes. Immortals understood patience. After a while, Xu Qing recognized this back-and-forth game and told him that, she was with Han Chen her whole childhood and she knows him best and was anything but a martial artist. Zhao Lin recently started his martial training. Han Chen simply avoided them. 

The episode was soon over. Meanwhile, Xu Qing found herself drawn more to Zhao Lin. It seemed fate always nudges major events down a predetermined path. Zhao Lin also drawn into her after a successful confession to her. Both of them pretended to be deep in love infront of him gauging his reactions. Seeing nothing from the dead fish Han, Zhao felt bored and Xu Qing felt slight heartache.