Qi is Science

A Gun That Outclasses Cultivation

The morning sun cast long shadows over the open field where Emery had set up his latest experiment. A dozen metal targets stood in the distance, their surfaces already dented from failed tests. His latest creation—a refined firearm—rested in his gloved hands. The air smelled of iron, oil, and sweat.

"Alright," Emery muttered, levelling the gun. His grip tightened as he exhaled slowly.

"Let's see what you can do."

The trigger clicked. A sharp crack split the air. The bullet struck the target but did little more than splinter the wood. Emery frowned.

Zafira stood behind him, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Not enough power."

He ignored the comment and immediately made adjustments, disassembling the chamber with practiced ease. The other disciples watched with curiosity and a hint of unease. Cultivation had always ruled the battlefield. To see destruction born without Qi—it unsettled them.

"Again," Emery ordered.

This time, when he pulled the trigger, the firearm roared. The bullet slammed into the target, obliterating it into splinters. The disciples staggered back, their murmurs turning to uneasy silence.

A second shot tore through reinforced steel, sending echoes across the training ground. The sheer force of it left deep cracks in the testing wall.

Zafira and Callum exchanged glances—realizing this weapon could change warfare forever.

Zafira, intrigued yet uneasy, asked, "Do you even understand what you've just created?"

Emery, tightening his grip on the weapon, whispered, "This is only the beginning."

---

Weeks of trial and error had led to this moment.

Emery wiped sweat from his brow, standing before the engine that had consumed his every waking thought. The machine—an intricate network of gears, pistons, and chambers—had refused to cooperate for too long. Now, with a final modification, he was ready.

He pulled the lever.

The engine shuddered before roaring to life, its metallic groan vibrating through the ground. Steam hissed from the pipes. The gears turned, trembling with effort. The noise was deafening.

And yet, something was wrong.

Emery narrowed his eyes, watching the machine struggle and shutting down. It was consuming fuel at an alarming rate, the heat dispersing inefficiently. This was not true power. It was forced. Primitive. Wasteful.

He realizes: It's not about movement—it's about energy control.

He took a step back, rubbing his temples. "No," he muttered.

"This isn't it."

Before he could delve further, Zafira strode into the room, arms crossed. "Your materials arrived."

Emery turned, momentarily snapped out of his thoughts. "What?"

She gestured to the crates stacked in the corner. "The raw materials you wanted for your ''chalkboards''. Enough to cover every damn wall in this workshop once you put them together. You're lucky I agreed to this."

Emery's eyes lit up with renewed intensity. "Finally."

But the work had only just begun.

The materials were raw slate, unfinished, uncut. Creating a single usable chalkboard took a full month of trial and error, testing different sanding techniques, reinforcement frames, and mounting structures. Callum assisted relentlessly, cutting and refining slabs to match Emery's specifications while Zafira continued her daily inspections, ensuring their work remained funded. The weeks blurred together in sawdust and labor, their hands roughened from the process.

Finally, after months of gruelling work, stacks of completed boards filled the workshop, their dark surfaces smooth and pristine. Emery wiped sweat from his brow, taking a step back to admire the results. "This is it." He turned to Zafira, who had been watching with a raised brow.

"You can sell the chalkboards to anyone you want now."

Zafira smirked, stepping forward. "Sell them, huh?"

She picked up a piece of chalk and, with exaggerated movements, began drawing on one of the freshly completed boards.

Emery squinted, his curiosity quickly turning into horror as the image took shape—his own face, but grotesquely exaggerated. His nose was comically large, his eyes wide and uneven, his mouth twisted into an absurd grin.

Callum took one look and burst into laughter, doubling over. "Oh gods, that's—That's awful!"

Emery's face flushed red. "Zafira, what in the fuck is that supposed to be?!"

"You," she said innocently, stepping back to admire her masterpiece.

"What do you think? A fine piece of art, isn't it?"

Before Emery could argue, some of Zafira's crew, drawn by the noise, wandered in. The moment they saw the drawing, they couldn't contain themselves, chuckling and egging each other on. Within moments, chalk was passed around, and soon the boards were filled with all manner of ridiculous doodles—some of Emery, others of Zafira and Callum in equally exaggerated fashion.

Emery groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as the workshop descended into chaotic amusement. "I created these for science, not for—!"

Callum wiped a tear from his eye as he slung an arm around Emery's shoulder in a side hug. "Emery, my friend, you've just given the world something even greater than knowledge. You've given us entertainment."

Emery, who normally despised physical contact, found himself not minding it—from Callum, at least. He simply sighed in disbelief, rubbing his temples as laughter continued around him.

 He turned to Zafira, expecting her usual smirk, but instead, she gave him a small nod of approval. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His face heated slightly, and he looked away, "Tch. Whatever.".

After the celebration died down, Emery found himself alone with Zafira and Callum in the engine room. The two stood behind him as he stepped forward, gripping the lever with tense fingers. "Watch closely," he murmured.

With a deep breath, he pulled the lever.

The machine trembled, gears grinding against one another before, at last, a deep, guttural roar filled the room. Steam hissed from the pipes. The engine was alive.

Callum's mouth parted slightly in awe. "Emery… you did it."

Zafira exhaled through her nose, arms crossed but visibly impressed. "Not bad."

And yet, Emery only frowned.

He watched the pistons move, the heat escape in wasteful bursts. The engine worked, but it was flawed. Primitive. Inefficient. This wasn't power. This wasn't progress.

It was still caged fire.

Zafira glanced at him, noting the deep crease in his brow. "You look disappointed."

"Because I am," he admitted. "This isn't enough."

As the machine churned behind them, Zafira found herself lost in thought, staring at the rhythmic pulsing of the pistons. For a moment, she wasn't here—she was somewhere else, in the past.

Yasmina's voice echoed in her mind.

"Layla is different. She's reckless, yes, but she doesn't just want to fight—she wants to change things."

Zafira had scoffed back then. "Change things? War doesn't change. You either win or you die."

Yasmina had only smiled, eyes distant with admiration. "Maybe. But if anyone could do it, it's her."

She hadn't just meant Layla's idealism—she also meant Layla's brutality.

Layla didn't simply fight wars; she ended them. There had been a battle, one where defeat was all but certain. Their forces were outnumbered, resources depleted, and morale shattered. And yet, Layla had turned the tide with sheer ruthlessness.

She had sent her own troops ahead as bait, luring the enemy into a false sense of victory. Then, under the cover of night, she burned their supply lines, poisoned their water, and left false retreat paths littered with traps. By dawn, the enemy army wasn't just defeated—they were annihilated.

Even Zafira had been shaken by the lengths Layla had gone to secure victory.

"She doesn't just seek to change things," Yasmina had murmured that night, watching the battlefield from the cliffs above.

"She's willing to become something monstrous to do it."

And now, standing before Emery—another mind consumed by progress—Zafira felt that same unease creep into her spine.

The memory faded, and Zafira's gaze flickered toward Emery.

Another mad genius chasing the impossible.

Zafira watched him, arms crossed, unease curling in her gut. Emery had always been intense, but this… this was something else. His posture, the manic gleam in his eyes, the way he muttered equations under his breath like a prayer—it was all too familiar.

She had seen this before. Layla, before the fall. The Emperor, before the rise.

The machine still trembled in the background, an incomplete beast, loud and unstable. His mind raced through every calculation, every mistake, and yet he didn't stop—he couldn't.

She exhaled sharply and reached out, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You need to take a break. Travel for a bit. Clear your head."

Emery barely reacted. "No," he said flatly. "I still have a job to do."

Zafira frowned. "The engine—"

"—isn't finished." He finally turned to her, eyes sharp with unwavering determination. "You didn't recruit me to rest. You recruited me to give you power. And I will."

Zafira studied him for a long moment, then slowly withdrew her hand. This wasn't just ambition anymore. This was obsession.

She exhaled sharply. "You've been working non-stop since the day we met at that spice shop," she said, her voice edged with something almost resembling concern. "You don't need to indulge in this, Emery. You've already done more than enough."

Emery let out a breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "And yet, it's not enough." He turned back toward the engine, still trembling with inefficiency. "You recruited me for a reason, Zafira. I have a job to do. And I'm going to finish it."

She narrowed her eyes. "At what cost?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and, in an uncharacteristic move, gripped her wrist—not tightly, but firm enough that she felt it. "I will get it done," he said, his voice unwavering.

Zafira blinked, momentarily taken aback. He was scrawny, physically unimposing, but in that moment, his grip felt heavier than steel.

A tense silence stretched between them before she clicked her tongue and pulled her hand away.

"Stubborn idiot."

A ghost of a smirk flickered across Emery's lips. "Takes one to know one."

Zafira's expression cracked. Her usual controlled demeanor twisted into something more forceful, her voice rising above even the engine's groaning whir. "I'm not an idiot! You are!"

Before Emery could react, she closed the distance between them, nearly jabbing a finger into his chest. "You're not like me, Emery. I'm not smart like you, I don't have your damn equations, but I can see what's happening to you. You look like a—" she struggled for the right word, her tone shifting from anger to something dangerously close to concern, "—an animal chasing something it'll never catch."

Emery exhaled, his gaze steady. Then, without hesitation, he pushed her hand aside and stepped forward. "Follow me."

"What?"

"Both of you." His voice was sharper now, laced with something unreadable. He strode toward the far end of the workshop, where towering stacks of parchment and crates of ink were piled high. "You want to know what I've been doing?" He grabbed a handful of papers and let them scatter to the floor. Pages upon pages of theories, sketches, calculations.

Callum knelt, picking one up, his eyes widening at the complex diagrams detailing circuits, energy storage, and something far beyond mere engines. He traced a finger over the intricate notes, muttering under his breath. "You're theorizing how to harness energy itself... transmission without loss... controlled output... Emery, this isn't just an engine anymore. This is something else entirely."

Zafira picked up another sheet, her sharp eyes scanning the lines of calculations. Her brow furrowed. "Wait a damn second—this... this was all done by you? Alone?"

Emery turned away from them, walking toward the humming engine. "I knew the engine worked before anyone else did," he admitted, voice low. "When you all left for winter supplies, I stayed behind and ran the test in secret. It worked. But it was flawed. Just as I suspected."

Zafira snapped her gaze to him. "Then why hide it? Why go through all this?" She gestured toward the mountain of papers, the endless scrawlings of one man's genius bordering on madness.

Emery finally faced them, his eyes dark with purpose. "Because I realized the truth. This engine—it's not the future. It's a stepping stone. If I stopped here, if I accepted it as 'good enough,' I'd be no better than those who cling to outdated power." He swept his hand over the sketches again. "I need something greater. Not just motion. Not just heat. I need control over energy itself."

Zafira stared at him, fingers tightening around the papers in her grasp. The sheer scale of what she was holding—what had been created by one man alone—made her uneasy.

She exhaled sharply, then scoffed. "You think this makes you powerful? There are cultivators who can split mountains with a wave of their hand. Even if you do harness electricity, you're defying the heavens themselves. The Qi, the Dao—cultivators don't follow the principles of science or math."

Emery's head snapped up, eyes burning with frustration. "Bullshit."

Callum hesitated. "Emery, you've seen what Zafira can do. You really think Qi can be explained?"

Emery slammed his fist onto the table. "Every technique, every so-called miracle of cultivation can be explained. Qi is nothing more than the body adapting, becoming stronger through external training and internal refinement. Just because no one has mapped it properly doesn't mean it's beyond comprehension! It follows rules, just like everything else in this world!" His voice was raw, defiant. "You believe in Qi because you've seen it. I believe in science because I understand it. And if I understand something, I can replicate it—no, improve upon it."

Zafira narrowed her eyes. "And if you're wrong?"

Emery's expression darkened. "Then I'll prove myself right."

Zafira barely had time to react before Emery spun toward the chalkboard, grabbing a fresh piece of chalk. With swift, precise strokes, he began drawing out diagrams, angles, and equations.

"Your footwork," he started, his voice sharp. "During the fight with that unusual swordsman, you moved at an inhuman speed. To the untrained eye, it looks like magic. But it isn't."

He sketched a rough diagram of a human figure, marking arrows along the legs and feet. "You pivoted at a precise forty-two-degree angle to conserve momentum while accelerating forward. The force exerted on the ground—combined with the low-friction movement of your Qi-enhanced muscles—allowed you to bypass normal biological limitations. It's Newton's Third Law in action. Every step you took transferred energy efficiently, allowing exponential acceleration."

Zafira narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

Visibly frustrated, Emery clenched his fists. "Fine," he snapped. "I'll show you."

Before she could protest, he took a step back, adjusting his stance. "Count your clock internally," he instructed, his voice sharp. "Each time I move, mark the seconds."

Zafira hesitated, something in her gut telling her to stop him. "Emery, you're not a cultivator. If you push yourself—"

"Just count," he interrupted. Without waiting for approval, he launched himself forward, mimicking the exact movements he had analyzed from her fight.

His form wasn't as fluid, nor was his speed nearly as fast, but the mechanics were flawless. His feet struck the ground at precise angles, his weight shifting at calculated intervals. His momentum carried him forward in near-perfect replication of her technique—albeit slower, human, and raw.

Zafira watched, her lips parting slightly. He's actually doing it.

She had assumed his theories were just that—theories. But here he was, executing them without Qi, relying solely on physics, muscle control, and calculated force.

Callum looked between them, stunned. "Zafira... he's proving you right by proving you wrong."

Emery skidded to a halt, breathing heavily but triumphant. He turned to Zafira, sweat dripping from his brow. "Your technique works because of physics. Not magic. Not divine energy. Science."

Zafira, for once, had nothing to say.

Emery wasn't done. "Then, the slash."

He drew another diagram, this time a motion arc of her sword. "Your blade cut through a solid steel spear. That should be impossible—unless you manipulated kinetic energy upon impact. The speed of your slash—let's approximate it to 80 m/s—combined with the concentrated force output of your muscles enhanced through Qi, increased the pressure per square inch of the blade's edge. By focusing all energy into a single focal point, the target's structural integrity was overwhelmed in an instant. The result? A seamless cut."

Callum slowly exhaled, absorbing every word. "He's... he's right."

Zafira, arms crossed, said nothing, but her lips pressed into a thin line. She had felt the technique, executed it instinctively, but never once had she thought of it in mathematical terms. And yet—everything he said made perfect sense.

Emery turned to her, meeting her gaze.

Without warning, he grabbed a thick tree branch that had been left near the entrance. Callum barely had time to react to dodge before Emery lunged at him, using the same calculated movement principles he'd just described. The arc of his strike mirrored Zafira's technique—precise angles, controlled force, and minimal wasted motion.

As the branch connected with the ground at a specific angle, a sharp crack echoed through the room. The wood split perfectly down the middle, both halves falling symmetrically apart. Emery stepped back, breathing heavily, watching as the splintered pieces settled.

"See?" His voice was steady, but his eyes burned with intensity. "By controlling the exact force distribution and impact vector, I created a clean break—no jagged edges, no uneven split. Your technique works because of physics. Not magic. Not divine energy. Science." 

Zafira's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't moved nearly as fast as she could, but there was no denying it—he had replicated the mechanics of her technique, step by step, without Qi.

Breathing heavily, Emery straightened. "See? I don't need Qi to perform your techniques. Given enough time, I could match them—surpass them, even."

His frustration boiled over, his fists clenching at his sides. "I'm so fucking sick of this Qi nonsense! Every time, people act like it's some divine, untouchable force. But it's not! It follows rules—it has to! If Qi masters can split mountains, then there is a goddamn reason for it. And I'll find it."

For a long moment, Zafira simply stared at him, her unease growing.

This wasn't just about understanding Qi anymore.

This was Emery proving he could surpass it.

Still panting, Emery pointed a trembling finger at Zafira, his entire body drenched in sweat from exertion. "I will harness electricity," he declared, his voice hoarse but unwavering. "I will give humanity light. I will light up this world and revolutionize it."

Zafira's breath hitched as she studied him. His sweat-soaked clothes clung to his wiry frame, his muscles trembling from strain. His normally pale skin was flushed from exertion, streaked with grime and sweat. His silver-grey eyes, sharp and calculating, burned with a manic intensity, their usual glint of curiosity now overshadowed by raw obsession. Strands of his dark brown hair, usually neatly kept, clung messily to his forehead, further adding to the image of a man teetering on the edge of brilliance and madness. His usually sharp eyes burned with something deeper—an obsession that teetered between brilliance and madness. Even knowing he had no Qi, she couldn't shake the unease crawling up her spine.

He shouldn't be capable of this. And yet, he was.

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. For the first time, Zafira found herself wondering if Emery wasn't rejecting Qi—but proving it through another path. If he could achieve this much without it, then what would happen if he truly did find the answer to everything?

Before she could dwell on the thought further, she moved. In a blur, her fingers pressed against the precise Qi points on Emery's body, cutting off his movement in an instant.

Emery staggered, his knees buckling as he fought against the sudden wave of exhaustion. "Damn it—!" he cursed, glaring up at her. "You used that on me again?! I hate that!"

Zafira exhaled, steadying herself. "I know," she murmured. "I'm sorry. But you need to rest."

She turned to Callum, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Make sure he sleeps. He's done enough."

Callum hesitated but nodded, moving to support Emery before he could collapse completely.

Zafira took one last look at the chaotic mess of papers scattered across the floor. With careful hands, she began stacking them neatly, her fingers brushing over the endless calculations, sketches, and theories.

How do I support him? she wondered. Even as he teetered on the edge of obsession, she found herself unwilling to let him fall alone.

Something about this reminded her of years ago—when she had trained under Master Li Ru, a swordsman whose methods had been nothing short of ruthless. She had watched him refine his techniques, sharpening them over and over with an almost inhuman intensity, cutting down anything that stood in his way.

And now, Emery was doing the same. But his sword was knowledge, and his battlefield was his own limits.