The apartment was dark.
Not because the lights were off, but because the sun had long forgotten to rise in here. Curtains were drawn, windows taped shut, air stale from days of stillness. The floor was buried under papers. Notes. Calculations. Madness.
In the center of it all sat a man.
Thin. Pale. Late twenties, maybe older.
His name was Lu Jian. But no one had spoken it in weeks. Maybe months.
His eyes were wide open, staring at the wall. Not blinking.
A pen dangled from his fingers. His lips moved.
> "If a soul splits... but still holds continuity... what happens to memory? To will?"
He wasn't asking anyone.
No one was left to answer.
Only a wall pinned with a hundred scribbled pages, a broken whiteboard, and a glowing monitor still running a looping equation too long for human eyes to follow.
His chest stopped rising.
No drama. No noise.
He simply stopped.
The world was wet.
Wood creaked.
And a breath returned.
Lu Jian sat up except he wasn't Lu Jian anymore.
The ceiling above him was slanted wood, beams cracked from age. His back ached from the thin straw mat beneath him. There were no machines. No monitors. No cold.
Only dust. Dampness. And silence.
His fingers trembled.
Smaller. Thinner.
He raised a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was different.
His eyes darted across the room an old shelf, a chipped basin, robes hanging on a rusted nail.
And then
Pain.
Not physical. Memory.
A flood of thoughts rushed through him, memories that weren't his. A house burning. A family shouting. A name
Lu Zhen.
That was this body's name.
A nobody.
A discarded son from the Lu Clan, cast down to rot in a backwater sect called Wind Glaze.
Lu Zhen gasped, clutching his forehead as the old soul settled behind the new.
He looked at his hands again.
Then at the wooden room.
A knock came at the door.
Then a voice.
"Zhen! Stop sleeping! The potential test's in a quarter stick! Grandpa's already waiting!"
Lu Zhen didn't answer.
He stood, slowly, adjusting the rough robes at his side.
His head still ached. His thoughts were slow.
But his breath... steady.
He opened the door.
His brother stood outside. Black hair, dark eyes, same face sharper jaw. Slightly taller. Clean robe, half smile.
"Still daydreaming?" the boy asked.
Lu Zhen didn't answer.
He just followed.
The morning air was thin.
Mist curled at the edges of the path as Lu Zhen followed behind his brother. The ground was damp, lined with stone that had cracked from age and use. Thin moss crept through the edges, quietly swallowing the old steps.
Wind Glaze Sect wasn't large.
Its buildings were crooked, built from old mountain wood, repaired too many times. No tall towers, no golden pavilions. Just a slope on the northern ridge of the Qinling Mountain Vein, and a long stairway that vanished into the sky.
This was a low-tier sect. Barely kept alive by its few elders and outer disciples.
And yet… it breathed. Slowly. Patiently.
Birds circled above. Distant roars echoed from deeper valleys beasts, likely. The mountain never slept.
Lu Chen glanced sideways as they walked.
"You've been quiet all morning," he said.
Lu Zhen looked ahead, not answering right away.
The memories from this body were still slotting themselves into place like broken pottery being glued back together.
He remembered being thrown out of the family estate.
He remembered sleeping in the mud behind a shed.
He remembered this brother… who never spoke much but always brought food when others turned away.
"…Nothing to say?" Lu Chen asked again.
Zhen looked at him, then gave a small nod.
"Just tired."
Lu Chen smirked. "You always say that."
They reached a bend in the path. The view opened.
The outer courtyard of Wind Glaze Sect came into sight flat stone clearing, old flags waving, and a single round platform at the center. A black crystal stood there like an obsidian heart: the Potential Stone.
A small crowd had gathered.
Mostly young disciples. Some elders stood by, arms crossed, robes neat. No one smiled.
The test wasn't a celebration.
It was judgment.
Lu Zhen slowed his steps, eyes narrowing.
A boy stepped onto the platform. Placed his hand on the stone. The crystal flared yellow Stage 3.
Polite claps.
Another stepped up. Green Stage 4.
More nods. Small praise from an elder.
Lu Chen sighed. "Guess I'll go in a few."
Zhen said nothing. His eyes were on the stone.
It pulsed faintly with qi, as if hungry for more hands, more souls.
He inhaled slowly.
Then exhaled even slower.
He felt it this body's limitations. Weak muscle tone. Shallow breath. Disrupted meridians. Even without touching the stone, he knew what would come.
And yet…
He stepped forward.
The air thickened as he stepped closer.
The murmurs around the courtyard quieted. Not for him. But because the stone demanded silence.
Lu Chen stayed at the back, arms crossed. No smile now. Just watching.
A few outer disciples whispered. Some recognized Lu Zhen's face, others didn't.
"That's the twin brother, right?"
"Didn't he get kicked out of the family?"
"He's still in the sect?"
Zhen heard none of it. His eyes stayed fixed on the black crystal.
The Potential Stone.
Ancient. Untamed. Carved from the remains of a fallen meteor beast. It did not lie. It did not care.
It judged.
"Name," came the voice of Elder Xuan.
"Lu Zhen," he replied, calm.
The elder raised a brow, as if surprised this boy still had the nerve to appear.
"Place your hand. Let the stone speak."
Lu Zhen stepped up onto the platform. His feet felt heavier than before.
He reached out.
The stone was cold. Colder than ice. It bit into his palm like it was tasting blood.
Then
A flicker.
A faint, thin glow. Orange.
It struggled to sustain itself. A single breath of light, barely strong enough to cling to the surface. Then it died.
Silence.
Someone scoffed from the back.
A whisper broke out. Then another.
"Orange…"
"Stage 2?"
"Trash."
Lu Chen's lips tightened. He didn't speak.
Elder Xuan said nothing either. Just wrote something on his scroll and waved a hand.
"You may step down."
Lu Zhen removed his hand. Turned. Walked back toward his brother.
No anger in his eyes. No shame on his face.
Lu Chen gave a short breath through his nose. "Don't listen to them."
"I don't," Zhen replied.
Not a single emotion showed.
Because deep inside, as the stone's cold faded from his palm…
Something else had stirred.
Something no stone could measure.
The crowd broke away like dry leaves in wind.
Disciples left the courtyard in twos and threes, whispering. Some glanced back. Most didn't. The ones who did wore the same look in their eyes: disappointment, maybe amusement.
Lu Zhen stepped off the platform in silence.
Lu Chen walked beside him, slower than before.
"I told Grandpa not to expect much from that stone," Lu Chen said after a while. "Doesn't mean anything, anyway."
Lu Zhen didn't respond.
It wasn't that he didn't care. He simply didn't waste time on what didn't matter.
He glanced down at his palm. The stone's chill was gone, but a trace of pressure remained. Not from the stone.
From the weight of how small he now appeared to this world.
> Orange.
Stage 2.
In the Wind Glaze Sect, even the outer disciples usually tested green or yellow. Orange was the bare minimum to even stay. If he hadn't had Lu Chen backing him these past months, they might've already sent him to clean latrines for the rest of his life.
And now?
They had an excuse.
As the two walked down the slope toward the outer disciple quarters, a presence stirred behind a nearby tree.
An old man sat quietly under the shade.
His clothes were plain, his hair gray and tied back. A long pipe rested between his fingers. His eyes didn't move, but they watched.
Watched only Lu Zhen.
He took a slow drag from the pipe, exhaled smoke into the rising mist, then vanished.
Later that night, Lu Zhen sat on the edge of his wooden bed, the straw mat creaking under him.
The room was small. Barely any space between the walls. A single candle flickered beside a scroll stand. The air was thin, damp. The silence felt thick.
Outside, faint laughter could be heard. A celebration in one of the inner courtyards. Someone probably reached Stage 5 or 6. He didn't care.
His eyes stared ahead.
Not at anything.
Just thinking.
This wasn't the first time he had been called trash. Not in this life. Not in the last. Maybe not even the one before it.
But this time… he had nothing.
No spiritual roots. No hidden master. No miracle awakening.
> Only his mind.
And even that wasn't trusted in this world.
No one feared intelligence. They feared power.
But if power could be calculated…
He reached toward the scroll shelf. His fingers paused over the basics.
Beginner Breathing Scripture
Mountain-Sink Fist (Unranked)
Outer Sect Duty Guidelines
He ignored the last one.
He pulled the breathing scripture first. Opened it. Simple. Dry. But something caught his eye.
> "Qi flows where breath leads, and breath flows where intent lingers."
He read it again.
And again.
He sat there, unmoving, until the candle burned half down.
Then he closed the scroll.
He would start tonight.
Not to catch up.
Not to get stronger.
But to learn.
To understand this system. Break it down. Piece by piece.
Even if it took him decades, he would do what he always did:
> Compute the impossible.
He read in silence.
Page after page.
The Breathing Scripture was old. Not in the way that held mystery but in the way something's been copied too many times and now held faded ink and shallow thought. Every line repeated the last.
> "Gather. Store. Guide. Release."
Four steps. Always the same.
There were no diagrams. No hidden meanings. Just vague phrases on controlling breath to guide qi.
But to Lu Zhen, it wasn't useless.
His fingers traced a line slowly.
> "Qi flows where breath leads..."
He closed his eyes. Sat straighter.
Breathed in.
Nothing.
Breathed again.
Still nothing.
But he wasn't expecting to sense qi yet. He was watching how the breath moved. How the air curled at the back of his throat, how his chest expanded, how the chill of the mountain seeped into his bones. His thoughts layered over each other, breaking down the action into frames.
> If breath could lead qi, then breath was a vector.
> If qi could be stored, then it must be quantifiable.
> If storage was possible, then overflow must be real.
> And if overflow occurs…
His fingers twitched, reaching for a charcoal stick beside the scroll. On the back of the duty guideline parchment, he began to draw not talismans, not diagrams.
But graphs.
He didn't even realize how long he was sketching. Until the candle burned low. Until the tip of the charcoal broke.
Only then did he blink.
And exhale.
There was still no qi in his body.
But something else had started moving.
Not inside his dantian. But behind his eyes.
His thoughts… were calculating again.
Outside his door, Lu Chen had passed by with a bowl of food hours ago. He didn't knock, just left it on the floor outside.
Inside, Lu Zhen hadn't eaten.
He didn't even notice.
Because somewhere, in the deep silence of the mountain…. a new path was forming.
Not a path of roots. Or fate.
But thought.