Chapter 23: Cultivating Inner Power (Please leave your comments!)

The daylight was dim and somber, clouds scattering across the sky.

Chen Yu sat cross-legged on the stone steps, eyes closed as he regulated his breath, faint wisps of white mist drifting in and out from his lips and nostrils.

He had set out empty-handed today and returned the same, and to say he felt no disappointment would be untrue, yet he did not dwell on it much.

Truly.

Compared to that, his curiosity lingered on that black fish—he felt a peculiar affinity with it. Perhaps next time, he might have another go, to see if the master of the Grand Pavilion could retrieve his lost hook.

Since awakening to this world, three months had passed, and this was the first time anyone—or rather, any fish—had taken advantage of him so brazenly.

More than a dozen earthworms, nourished with spiritual fluid, had been devoured; the appetite was formidable.

Next time, with a new style of hook, Chen Yu would certainly seek a proper lesson.

Drawing his attention back within, he was at this moment circulating his breath and blood, practicing the “Qi Gathering” technique of the He Sha school.

Practitioners of the He Sha method believed that the world was suffused with baleful energies—nothing existed without its own sha. The blazing sun of the ninth heaven condensed sun-sha, the bright full moon gathered moon-sha, and beyond these, there was the star-sha of the myriad heavens, the drifting cloud-sha, and even every blade of grass and tree was said to be wreathed in invisible sha.

Of course, no one had ever truly seen such things.

To harness these energies, unique methods were required—precisely what he now practiced.

In this world’s Daoist traditions, the four great schools were not as strictly divided as legend might suggest. Over centuries, it was inevitable that some masters would combine the strengths of two or more schools. After generations, their teachings intertwined.

Their core philosophies might differ, but their methods of cultivation borrowed from one another.

No school was particularly choosy—unless a practice was fundamentally at odds with their own lineage, most would be adopted.

This was a world that welcomed all rivers, truly capacious.

Yunhe Temple was no different; while primarily cultivating the Jingming teachings, it also practiced He Sha techniques.

Chen Yu had pored over the few Daoist texts the temple possessed, gaining some understanding of these two major schools.

Unlike most Daoists, however, he was a half-baked one, treating his main cultivation more as a way to nurture his qi and calm his mind.

Qi Gathering, for him, served to complement the breathing techniques of Yunhe Gong, calming his spirit and coordinating his organs, thus aiding his later martial practice.

He had never hoped it would grant him any of those elusive, mystical things.

Yet after prolonged practice, though he had not glimpsed the so-called spiritual sha, his mastery of nourishing qi had grown ever more refined.

Now, he was gathering qi—but with a difference.

A single breath cycled within his body, flowing through his organs, carrying away impurities before being expelled through his nostrils.

At the same time, Chen Yu’s mind drifted, while his body remained utterly still. Muscles and blood worked in tight coordination, generating internal force that, guided by his breathing, steadily tempered a specific patch of flesh.

This was an external cultivation method recorded in Yunhe Gong, and only recently had his level allowed him to experiment with it.

Compared to his earlier, crude attempts to force power through his body, this method—refined over countless generations—was far superior.

After a round, his skin toughened, his flesh grew marginally more resilient.

Of course, these gains were subtle, requiring patient accumulation. And a martial artist was still human; no matter how toughened, he could never achieve skin of bronze or bones of iron—that was mere exaggeration.

Once the cycle ended, Chen Yu opened his eyes and gazed at the distant mountains.

After a long while, he withdrew his thoughts, pondered briefly, then stilled his breath again. His consciousness rippled, transforming into a silent tide.

The next moment, the familiar sea of consciousness appeared. Dots of light floated in the air, drifting up from the ocean at his feet, only to scatter the instant they surfaced.

Eighteen in total.

He glanced at a corner, where an invisible force tightly bound the luminous spheres he had condensed.

Eighteen tiny, moon-bright halos.

He did not stir the sea to dig any out, merely observed them before leaving that misty realm.

Returning to reality, Chen Yu reflected: the strengthening of his spirit did not seem to affect how many of these spheres formed—only the speed and endurance with which he could harvest them.

How to increase their number, then...?

That was a question. He made a mental note to study it further when the opportunity arose.

For now, he focused within his own body.

Far from achieving “inner sight,” he wasn’t even sure if such a state truly existed, so he relied on the faint muscle tremors he could induce, using internal force to explore himself.

Bit by bit, he familiarized himself with every subtlety.

The human body is a complex, delicate instrument; most people barely know themselves at all.

Chen Yu was no exception—his body defined his being, but as he sought to know every inch of flesh and bone, he realized how little he truly understood.

Most obvious were the hidden scars scattered throughout his body.

His former self had practiced martial arts—not without diligence, living through chaotic times and under the stern tutelage of an old Daoist.

Training in winter’s depths, training in summer’s heat.

But limited talent and the lack of treasures like spiritual fluid meant that after years, his skills were modest and injuries many.

“It will have to be nursed back step by step.”

Chen Yu was calm—these were but minor issues. Left unchecked, accumulated over years, they might one day cause trouble, but now that he was aware, solutions would follow.

There were many gentle medicines in the world.

Most importantly, internal force was just strength—it had no healing power, and used too frequently, could even strain sinews and damage flesh.

Time passed slowly. The sun finally slipped behind the western mountains, dusk fading, stars and moon emerging.

In the woods, cuckoos called, and leaves rustled in the evening wind.

Breath slowed and steadied, and as Chen Yu probed that strange power occasionally stirred by the spiritual fluid, he also honed his heart, lungs, and liver.

Both inner and outer training, gathering qi and clearing brightness—thus his day’s cultivation was complete.

Such is the benefit of internal force; the refinement it brings is far greater than mere punching and kicking. Now, two more quarters of an hour in standing meditation would finish today’s regimen.

No more the leaping and bounding for half an hour, blood and energy so riled it would not calm until deep into the night.

Of course, evening practice could take shortcuts, but morning drills still had to proceed as before. With internal force as an aid, the results should nonetheless improve.

...

Dinner was rice porridge with cold greens.

He had forgotten to buy seasonings on his last trip down the mountain, so the kitchen now held only vinegar, soy sauce, and a jar of coarse salt.

He didn’t expect to find chili or pepper; the former was rare even in Shiya County, perhaps even all of Great Liang, and the latter was far too expensive for a reclusive Daoist like himself.

Ordinary Daoists did not eat pepper anyway, rarely even as a spice.

Chen Yu had no such taboos—he simply could not afford it.

The courtyard was cool and breezy.

He chewed the vegetables, washing them down with thick rice gruel.

His mind drifted to other matters.

He would need to buy chicks—he needed meat, after all. He had hoped to improve his diet with wild fishing, but now it seemed the Grand Pavilion Master and the fish of this world were simply not meant for each other. Though he still clung to a faint, wavering confidence in his angling skills, he no longer held much hope.

Buying chicks in town was useless; he had asked on his last two visits—there were hens, but rarely chicks for sale.

So, he would have to look to the nearby villages, where some farmers might raise them.

He wasn’t asking for much—ten or so would suffice.

It would be his first time raising them; who knew how many would survive in the end.

As for the cost of feed, that was not a worry. He had just bought a vat of fine white rice; raising a few chicks at Yunhe Temple now would be no problem.

“But it would be best to buy ones a bit older; otherwise, they’re really hard to keep alive.”