Chapter 2: The First Taste of Power

Chapter 2: The First Taste of Power

The faint light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls of Ming You's shack, painting thin lines across the straw mat where he sat. The candle had long since burned out, leaving a puddle of wax beside him, its smoky scent lingering in the air. He remained motionless, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, the jade slip of the Threads of Chance cradled in his lap. His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths, each one a quiet testament to the energy now stirring within him.

The single strand of Qi he had refined the previous night pulsed faintly, a fragile thread woven into the fabric of his being. It was not the roaring power of the cultivators in the tales he had read—those who shattered mountains or summoned storms—but it was real, tangible, his own. Ming You's dark eyes, sharp and unyielding, stared at the slip as if it might reveal more secrets under his gaze. The 1st stage of Qi Condensation marked a beginning, not an end, and he knew the path ahead would demand more than a single night's effort.

He rose stiffly, his muscles protesting after hours of stillness. The shack was a meager space, its walls patched with mud and straw, its floor littered with the tools of his trade—ink-stained brushes, scraps of parchment, a chipped clay bowl. It had been his world for years, a cage of necessity shaped by his uncle's indifference and the village's poverty. Now, with the Qi humming beneath his skin, it felt smaller, less confining. He stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing against his face as he surveyed the village.

Huts huddled together under a gray sky, their thatched roofs damp with dew. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, carrying the scent of millet porridge and firewood. A farmer led a bony ox toward the fields, his silhouette blurred by the mist that drifted in from the valley. Ming You watched them, these people he had known all his life, and felt a distance growing between them. They toiled for survival, content with their lot or too broken to dream of more. He would not join them in that quiet surrender.

Returning to the shack, he concealed the jade slip beneath a loose floorboard, its hiding place a secret he guarded fiercely. The villagers would not understand its value, but they might steal it for the jade alone, a prize worth more than their yearly earnings. His uncle, a man of gruff words and heavy fists, would demand it sold if he knew. Ming You could not risk exposure—not yet.

He sat again, this time facing a small bronze mirror propped against the wall. His reflection stared back: a young man with hollow cheeks, a sharp jaw, and eyes that held a restless fire. The Qi had not changed him outwardly, not yet, but he felt its presence—a warmth that countered the chill of the room, a vitality that sharpened his senses. He closed his eyes and turned his focus inward, seeking to strengthen that fragile strand.

The Threads of Chance had described Qi Condensation as a process of gathering and refining spiritual energy, a task requiring patience and precision. Ming You excelled at both. Years of copying texts by candlelight, deciphering faded characters for merchants too lazy to read their own ledgers, had honed his discipline. He visualized the Qi as a thin stream, flowing through the meridians the manual had outlined—channels within his body that carried life itself. The strand wavered, unsteady, threatening to dissipate under his scrutiny.

He persisted, his brow furrowing as he guided the energy with his will. The manual emphasized stillness, a clarity of mind that banished distraction. Yet his thoughts wandered—to the shrine in the valley, its eerie silence; to the cryptic phrases about fate's watcher; to the life he might build beyond this village. Each distraction weakened his focus, the Qi trembling like a thread stretched too thin. He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind to empty, to become a vessel for the task alone.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, its light spilling through the cracks in broader bands. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his body aching from the strain. The Qi resisted, elusive, slipping from his grasp like water through clenched fingers. Doubt gnawed at him, a familiar companion from years of struggle. What if the manual was a fraud, a relic of delusion left to rot in the valley? What if he lacked the talent to rise beyond this first step?

No. He banished the thought, his jaw tightening. He had survived plague when his parents had not, had scraped a living from a world that offered him nothing. This was no different—a challenge to be met, a puzzle to be solved. He adjusted his breathing, slower now, deeper, letting the rhythm anchor him. The Qi responded, a faint pulse growing steadier, stronger.

Then, at last, it settled—a single, refined strand, no longer flickering but solid, a quiet hum within his core. Ming You exhaled, his shoulders slumping as relief washed over him. The sensation was subtle yet profound, like the first sip of water after a long drought. His limbs felt lighter, his mind clearer, as if the Qi had brushed away a layer of fatigue he had carried for years.

He opened his eyes, the mirror reflecting a faint gleam in his gaze. The 1st stage of Qi Condensation was his, fully claimed, but it was not enough. The manual promised twelve stages, each building on the last, and beyond that lay Foundation Establishment—a realm of power he could scarcely fathom. The strand within him was a spark, not a flame, and he hungered for more.

Footsteps approached, heavy and uneven, shattering his reverie. His uncle's voice rasped through the wall, demanding he fetch water from the well. Ming You rose, tucking the mirror aside, his expression smoothing into the mask of obedience he had worn since childhood. He stepped outside, the bucket's rough handle familiar in his hand, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the valley, the manual, the path he had begun.

As he walked to the well, the mist lingered on the horizon, a reminder of the shrine and its gift. The villagers moved around him, their lives unchanged, their eyes dull with routine. Ming You felt the Qi within him, a secret they would never know. It was power, yes, but more than that—it was possibility, a thread he could pull to unravel the fate they accepted.

He filled the bucket, the water's cold splash against his fingers grounding him. The Threads of Chance waited beneath the floorboard, its secrets his alone. He would return to it tonight, and every night, until he mastered its teachings. The village, his uncle, the endless grind of survival—they were chains he would break, one step at a time. For now, he carried the water back, his face impassive, but within him burned a quiet, unyielding resolve.