Chapter 16 – Spirit Drawing with a Broken Stylus

It began with a smudge.

Jian sat cross-legged on his bed, a chipped stylus in one hand and an old tablet propped against his knee. The device wheezed when he powered it on — the kind of slow boot-up that made you question if it was powered by Qi or sheer stubbornness.

The stylus's nib was half-gone, frayed at the edges. It had seen too many failed sketches, dropped onto tiled floors, and possibly — though Jian would never admit it — been chewed on during one very stressful chemistry exam.

"I can't believe I have to draw spiritual sigils using a free drawing app," he muttered, tapping the screen and watching it lag.

From his phone, Elder Sheng Tai emerged, trailing a ribbon of mist. His translucent form hovered just above Jian's desk, expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild horror.

"You once made alchemical tea in a rice cooker. Why should this displease you?"

"Because I'm trying to sketch something important here, not doodle anime fan art. There's pressure."

Sheng Tai arched an ethereal eyebrow. "You used basil and bathwater to create a spirit-snack. Surely, you can wield a brush of light."

Jian rolled his eyes. "You've been reading my text threads again, haven't you?"

"I monitor all spiritual traffic," Sheng Tai said proudly. "Even the emoji-laced ones."

Jian grunted and focused on the task at hand. He pulled up a blank canvas on his tablet and attempted to draw the first spiritual symbol from Sheng Tai's grimoire — a calming sigil meant to regulate chaotic Qi flow and reduce internal pressure. According to the old diagrams, it should resemble a spiraling wave woven with twin arcs.

His hand moved slowly, the stylus jerking as the screen lagged. The result was lopsided. It looked more like a sad shrimp.

"Magnificent," Sheng Tai intoned flatly. "A symbol of tranquility that resembles gastrointestinal discomfort."

Jian erased and tried again. This time, the arcs wobbled, the circle flattened at one side, and the final stroke twitched mid-line thanks to an accidental sneeze.

The symbol pulsed — a faint flicker of white light arcing through it like static electricity — before vanishing.

"…Wait. Did you see that?" Jian sat up.

"I did," Sheng Tai replied, eyes glinting. "That, my disciple, was accidental resonance."

"Because I sneezed?"

"Your breath disrupted your mind's control, allowing subconscious intent to flow more freely into the stroke."

Jian stared. "So you're saying sneezing might help me draw better?"

"In rare cases of spiritual misalignment, yes."

Naturally, Jian spent the next hour fake-sneezing onto the tablet and each attempt was met with varying success: some glyphs twitched faintly, others fizzled. One caught fire briefly and triggered the smoke alarm. Sheng Tai, halfway between horror and admiration, muttered something about the "School of Chaotic Inkstroke Sect."

"I think," Jian said between sniffles, "I've achieved Sneeze Qi Channeling."

"You've certainly weaponized allergies into cultivation," Sheng Tai replied, pinching the bridge of his nose but despite the chaotic method, progress was made — crooked, sneeze-powered, and mildly questionable progress.

The next morning, Jian arrived at school with two things in his bag: a thermos of overly strong Spirit-Mellowing Tea and a notebook filled with doodles that might, possibly, maybe be evolving into legitimate sigils.

His seatmate, Kai, leaned over as Jian was redrawing a shaky glyph during homeroom.

"What's that? New game logo?"

"Cultivation practice," Jian said without thinking.

Kai blinked. "Like… gym class?"

"No, like breathing energy and drawing symbols that glow."

There was a beat of silence. Jian coughed and added, "For a story I'm writing."

"Cool," Kai said, clearly unconvinced.

Jian turned the notebook slightly away and sighed. The glyph still looked like a jellyfish doing yoga, but Sheng Tai insisted it held potential.

After school, Jian retreated to his room. Sheng Tai was already floating above the desk, looking critically at the stylus Jian had taped back together with clear bandages and a prayer.

"We must now refine your technique," Sheng Tai said. "Random sneezing is unreliable."

"Tell that to my sinuses."

"Control must emerge from chaos."

Jian attempted a third-level Qi circulation while sketching a Balance Sigil. The result: a wobbly spiral that let off a faint ringing noise before combusting digitally into sparks.

"I call that one 'Crooked Resonance,'" Jian muttered.

"It lacks elegance," Sheng Tai said, "but carries spirit."

They experimented for hours. Jian tried tracing while breathing deeply, while humming, even while balancing a spoon on his head (Sheng Tai's idea, citing 'spatial mindfulness').

One attempt, drawn absentmindedly while munching on wasabi peas, pulsed gently with stable energy.

"You were distracted. Uninhibited," Sheng Tai noted.

"So you're saying I should always draw while snacking?"

"I am saying your spirit is most honest when your hands are doing something absurd."

Jian stared at the new sigil glowing softly on the tablet screen. Despite the crookedness, something about it felt right. It wasn't perfect, but it responded and it resonated. He named the style Bend Ink Flow — a school of imperfect precision born from a stylus, a sneeze, and a lot of snacks.

"Maybe there's more than one way to write a talisman," Jian said. Sheng Tai smiled faintly. "Indeed. Perhaps even the Dao can be drawn with jellyfish."

The next few days became a blend of study sessions, alchemy drills, and sigil experiments. Jian's desk grew cluttered with sticky notes, pill bottles, USB chargers, and at least three mismatched chopsticks that now served as Qi-channeling conductors.

Sheng Tai insisted Jian begin infusing each drawing with proper intention.

"A true talisman is not just shape, but will. You must assign meaning to every curve, command to every flick of your brush."

"But I'm using a broken stylus and a discount art app."

"Tools are only as sacred as the hands that wield them."

So Jian tried. Every day, after finishing his homework and surviving modern tribulations like group projects and cafeteria mystery curry, he'd sit down to draw. He whispered small mantras as he sketched.

"Calm like tea… smooth like soup…"

His attempts improved. Crooked as they remained, they started pulsing with a faint warmth. One defensive sigil, drawn during a thunderstorm while wrapped in three blankets and sipping hot chocolate, emitted enough Qi to deflect his cat's hairball. Sheng Tai counted it as "passive warding."

He recorded everything in a new notebook labeled: Manual of Accidental Dao.

There were chapters like the "Unintentional Inkstroke Resonance", the"Brush Lag As a Path to Patience", and the "Snack-Fueled Stability: A Case Study"

One night, Jian tried layering two glyphs together — a calming sigil over a focus rune. The app froze for a full minute. When it unfroze, the screen glowed bright green and emitted a single, loud ding.

His earbuds vibrated.

"…What was that?" he asked.

"You triggered a layered pulse," Sheng Tai said, impressed. "A combination glyph. Primitive, yes but i guess functional."

Jian stared. "So I just… invented a hybrid spell?"

"It appears your random layering of lines and chaos has created a new path."

"Grandpa," Jian said solemnly. "I think I'm becoming a Cultivator of Accidents."

Sheng Tai floated above the tablet and gently patted the air above Jian's head.

"Wear that title with pride. For many great discoveries were made by mistake… and cleaned up all this mess afterward."

Jian nodded. "And I still have two more wasabi peas."

"Good and we may need them to inscribe your next ward."

By the weekend, Jian had developed what could generously be called a "style." His sigils were crooked, unbalanced, and unpredictable — but they worked. Sometimes but atleast they worked.

Sheng Tai now floated above Jian's shoulder like an overinvested art professor.

"Your strokes lack formality," he said, peering at a glowing, wobbling symbol shaped like a lopsided snail shell. "But they have heart. That is… unconventional."

"It's better than nothing. My stylus cracked again."

"You may be the first to reach Foundation Ink Stage with a stylus held together by chewing gum."

Jian grinned. "Does that make me a Stylus Cultivator?"

Sheng Tai stroked his beard. "You may be pioneering an entirely new sub-discipline. A Dao of Drawn Intent — a Stylus Path."

Jian blinked. "That sounds fake. But also kind of awesome."

He leaned into the idea. For the first time, he wasn't just fumbling with spiritual concepts. He was shaping something. Not following dusty scrolls, but adapting them — blending the old with the absurdly modern.

With each evening practice, his work grew more refined. He learned how to time his breath with line placement. He learned which foods (roasted peanuts, apparently) enhanced his Qi focus. He discovered that listening to lo-fi beats helped calm his mind, but only if the playlist didn't include sudden saxophone solos.

A small notebook became his training journal:

• Day 6: Glyph failed. Stylus inked my screen protector instead. Energy output: minimal.

• Day 8: Accidentally created an alarm sigil. My tablet screamed at 3 AM.

• Day 10: Mom drank my focus tea. She cleaned the entire kitchen. Coincidence?

One evening, while sketching a slow, deliberate spiral meant to cleanse scattered thoughts, Jian felt something shift. The glow that emerged from the drawing wasn't just visual. He felt it — a gentle pulse in his palm, a warming ripple traveling up his wrist and settling in his chest.

Sheng Tai blinked. "That was… a genuine energy transfer."

"You mean… I actually cast a real talisman?"

"Yes. And not by accident."

For a long moment, Jian stared at the tablet. Then he stood up slowly, stylus raised like a sword.

"I… am Jian, the First of the Stylus Dao."

"Please sit down," Sheng Tai muttered. "and you're still wearing Pikachu pajamas."

"I will draw with purpose. I will cultivate with ink."

"You just spilled wasabi peas in your lap."

"Dao does not fear crumbs!"

Sheng Tai sighed. "Very well, Stylus Disciple. Let us see how far your crooked brush may reach."

And so, under the flickering glow of a cracked tablet screen and the sarcastic gaze of a very confused alchemist ghost, the Stylus Dao was born — an art of half-digital, half-spiritual cultivation built on sincerity, stubbornness, and several accidental sneezes.