Chapter 17 – A Very Mild Breakthrough (And a Cough)

Li Jian had tried meditation in every possible position: cross-legged on his bed, slouched on the couch, even upside-down once (which only led to mild nosebleeds and a stern lecture from Sheng Tai about 'blood flow imbalance'). But today, he was determined.

Armed with a pillow, noise-canceling earbuds, and a "Do Not Bother Unless On Fire" sticky note on his bedroom door, Jian sat quietly in the center of his room.

Sheng Tai floated above, hands clasped behind his back, his beard glowing faintly as always "Today," the old alchemist ghost announced, "we aim for inner stillness."

"I know. You've only said that five times in the past hour."

"Because stillness requires repetition. And reminders. Also, your aura is vibrating like a squirrel on soda."

Jian rolled his eyes and shut them.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Let the thoughts go.

Ignore the itch on your left ankle. Don't think about the itch. Or the text notification you think you just heard. Or that one math problem from earlier. No, seriously—stop thinking.

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

Then sixty.

Sheng Tai said nothing.

And neither did Jian.

He didn't fidget. He didn't sneeze. He didn't drool onto his sleeve like last time.

The room remained quiet — not the forced silence of restraint, but a true stillness. Like the calm before a snowflake landed. Jian's breath slowed. A warm ripple traveled up from his belly to his chest, subtle as a whisper.

In the back of his mind, he expected something to go wrong — a leg cramp, a sneeze, his mom yelling about chores.

Nothing came.

Just… calm.

Sheng Tai's voice broke the silence. Gentle this time.

"Open your eyes, disciple."

Jian blinked.

"Five minutes," Sheng Tai said, hovering closer. "You remained aligned for five full minutes."

Jian blinked again.

"Wait, seriously? No twitching? No Qi leaks?"

"No sneezing. No coughing. No burping. No commentary on lo-fi beats. A perfect stream."

Jian grinned, almost in disbelief.

"I actually did it?"

"You've achieved your first Inner Qi Bloom," Sheng Tai said, eyes twinkling. "A foundational cultivation step. Minor, yes. But essential."

Jian jumped to his feet, arms raised.

"YES! Finally! Suck it, gravity!"

And promptly stumbled into his nightstand.

The lamp wobbled. The pillow fell. Sheng Tai sighed.

"Stillness is not a one-time event," the ghost muttered. "It is a practice."

"Yeah, but let me have this one. I feel like… like my chest is warm soup! Like I swallowed a glowing dumpling!"

"A poetic interpretation," Sheng Tai admitted, rubbing his temples. "Unrefined. But accurate."

The thrill of success carried Jian through the next hour. He texted Kai with vague updates ("big brain energy today"), brewed a cup of celebratory tea that glowed faintly green, and even tried to fix his room — which mostly meant pushing all his clutter into the closet.

Sheng Tai observed this productive burst with mild suspicion.

"Inner Qi Bloom is no joke," he warned. "Energy must be stabilized."

"Relax, Grandpa. I'm fine." Jian struck a martial arts pose and nearly twisted his ankle on a slipper.

"You're not fine. You are—at best—Qi tipsy."

That night, Jian couldn't sleep.

The warmth in his chest refused to settle. It wasn't painful — more like a heated balloon full of butterflies. His dreams came in scattered flashes: flying to school on a giant chopstick, dueling a vending machine that shot out exploding peaches, Sheng Tai wearing a headset and rapping about spirit roots.

He woke up at 2:30 a.m. sweating and full of wild ideas.

"I need to design a focus glyph that links with the school bell schedule," he whispered. "No… better — integrate it with the cafeteria's snack timing. Synchronize with sugar spikes…"

"Sleep," Sheng Tai said, materializing with bags under his spectral eyes. "Before you reinvent snack-based time theory."

By morning, Jian was groggy but buzzing. He burned his toast three times. He forgot his homework. He poured soy sauce into his tea by mistake and almost drank it.

Sheng Tai, despite his usual sarcasm, said nothing at first. Instead, he handed Jian a small note (well, he gestured and it printed from the old wireless printer in the corner — still spooky).

Note from Your Spiritual Advisor:

Rest is part of growth. You cannot cultivate the Dao on ramen and insomnia.

Jian sighed. "Fine. I'll nap during math."

He didn't. Instead, during class, he used the margin of his worksheet to draw three stabilization glyphs and a doodle of Sheng Tai in Pikachu pajamas.

The stabilization glyph hummed quietly in his pocket.

So did his stomach.

Breakthroughs were exhausting, exciting… and kind of like eating too many energy gummies. They made you feel great, then weird, then crash hard.

Still, even with dark circles under his eyes and tea stains on his shirt, Jian couldn't help smiling.

He had bloomed.

Just… mildly.

And Sheng Tai hadn't even yelled today.

Yet.

Saturday morning arrived with the grace of a half-burnt pancake.

Jian shuffled into the kitchen wearing mismatched socks and a headband made from an old towel. Sheng Tai was already hovering by the stove, inspecting the rice cooker like it owed him money.

"Today," the ghost declared, "we stabilize your foundation."

Jian blinked. "I thought we were doing nothing today."

"We are doing nothing. Mindfully. With tea."

Sheng Tai floated over to a cabinet and started rattling its contents with spiritual pressure.

"Bring me the following: dried chrysanthemum, two slices of ginger, three mint leaves, and a pinch of osmanthus."

"I don't have osmanthus."

"Then we adapt. What modern flora do you possess?"

Jian looked into the fridge.

"Uh… lemon zest, green tea bags, mint gum?"

There was a long pause.

"Very well. This shall be the Stabilizing Decoction, Generation 1: Urban Variant."

As Jian brewed the tea, Sheng Tai instructed him on precise Qi flow — how to swirl energy into the liquid through breath and intent. It was like willing comfort into a cup of soup.

The tea glowed faintly when poured, and Jian could feel his chest settle with each sip.

"Stabilization is not about control," Sheng Tai said, arms folded, watching his disciple sip. "It is about acceptance. Cultivators who chase growth without grounding end up like cracked vessels — full of leaks and broken dreams."

"Sounds like my middle school art portfolio."

"Your metaphors are improving."

Later that day, Sheng Tai had Jian create a basic breathing talisman on the back of his school notebook. It pulsed gently in sync with Jian's breath — a visual reminder to stay calm when his Qi started getting jumpy.

"I feel… solid," Jian admitted that evening, curling up on the couch with a heating pad and another cup of tea.

"You are," Sheng Tai said. "For the first time, your spirit is not running away from your body."

Jian raised a brow.

"That sounds… horrifyingly accurate."

The ghost nodded.

"There will be many more breakthroughs. And many crashes. But this? This was your first real step into cultivation not born of accident, but of will."

Jian smiled.

"Still counts even if I had to chase it with mint gum?"

"Especially because you did."

Sunday evening crept in like a guilty conscience.

Jian sat cross-legged at his desk, tablet open, notebooks splayed out like defeated soldiers. A single problem glared at him from the math worksheet:

"If a train leaves City A at 2:30 PM and—"

He groaned and slapped his forehead. "I forgot I even had this assignment!"

"That," Sheng Tai said, appearing dramatically in a swirl of mist, "is because your consciousness has been occupied with more profound matters. Like not exploding."

"Tell that to my math teacher."

The glowing ghost glanced over Jian's shoulder at the worksheet. "You're telling me this counts as learning?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Sheng Tai squinted. "Why is there no diagram of meridian flows?"

"It's a physics question."

"Then where is the spirit momentum calculation? No Qi vectors? Not even a harmony curve?"

"Nope. Just trains."

Sheng Tai huffed. "This world's education system is deeply flawed."

Despite the frustration, Jian couldn't help but laugh. "You know what's weird? I actually feel better messing up schoolwork now. Like it's not the end of the world."

"That," Sheng Tai said proudly, "is the inner calm born of spiritual discipline. Or possibly the tea. Either way, your soul is less… jangly."

Jian took a sip of cold tea and smiled. "So what now? You said this was just a 'mild' breakthrough."

"It was. A flicker. The first spark. But now the real work begins."

"Like what? Meditating until I glow? Drawing sigils until my tablet dies?"

Sheng Tai's eyes gleamed. "All of the above. But also — learning balance. Between homework and herbwork. Between your world and mine."

"Sounds like a lot."

"It is."

Jian stared down at his open books. Then back at his tablet. Then at the cracked phone sitting beside him.

He tapped it once. Sheng Tai flickered.

"Still here."

"Good because I think I'm going to need a ghost tutor and a miracle to pass Monday's quiz."

"Together," Sheng Tai said solemnly, "we shall conquer both the Dao and algebra."

Jian raised his teacup.

"To spiritual cultivation." Shen Tian said

"To functioning Wi-Fi and not failing math." Jian replied while giving his toast

They clinked porcelain and plastic and in that quiet moment — filled with tea, math problems, and half-charged Qi — Jian knew one thing for certain: he was on the path now.

Slow, strange, slightly caffeinated — but real. The Dao… had begun to stick and even if his homework hadn't.