Initiation

This world is filled to the brim with qi.

Of course, it is self-evident that every last thing in creation—people and beasts, mountains and rivers and trees, down to the pebbles rolling along the roadside—harbors the qi of its own true nature.

And living creatures, being part of nature in the broadest sense, were each born with a share of that natural energy: the wellspring of life that kept a body of flesh and blood living and moving, which people were wont to call by such names as innate qi, or true-origin qi.

But then why did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠humanity, and not the bears and tigers with their massive frames and sharp fangs, come to stand as the crown of all creation? There are any number of reasons, I imagine, but I believe the driving force was a greed peculiar to humankind—the inability to be satisfied with the strength one is born with. Save for a precious few, humans are creatures who never rest content with what they are given, forever wanting something better, something more.

And when that greedy temperament fused with an intellect no beast could match, the result was the discipline the warriors of my past life labored so devotedly to learn and master... the study called martial arts.

Had I put an abstract question like "What do you think martial arts is?" to my past-life comrades—the finest martial artists I ever knew—the answers would have come back brimming with personality.

But if there were one definition of martial arts they would all, in the end, be made to concede, it would be this: the art of handling qi.

It was by mastering the martial arts—awakening to the means of drawing in, commanding, and releasing the energy of nature—that humanity earned a place apart from every other beast in creation.

Not that beasts are entirely without a connection to qi, of course.

Just as the human body carries acupoints where qi pools with unusual density—the Sea of Qi, the Gate of Life, the Jade Hall—so the land beneath our feet has its spiritual veins, where exceptionally rich and pure energy gathers and settles.

Plants and animals raised on the energy of a spiritual vein tended to grow far larger than their common kin, or to wield strength far beyond the norm—much like a human who had mastered the martial arts.

Every once in a while we'd catch a fire carp and stew it up, and there was nothing in the world better for replenishing the qi...

Memories of a past life rose before me—my comrades and I huddled shoulder to shoulder around a campfire, a pot of water set bubbling on the flames—and I smacked my lips.

It feels immodest to say so ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠myself, but for the me of my past life, a master of no small attainment, for a thing to count as mere "qi replenishment" meant it was a natural elixir that would let a greenhorn fresh to the martial arts, with no tolerance yet for spiritual medicines, trade a single bowl of fiery fish stew for months—even years—of training.

Of course, it could hardly compare with the nectar and ambrosia my great-grandfather Tantalus made off with in secret, rousing the wrath of the gods.

Such was the sway a spiritual vein held over the training of the martial arts.

One could periodically lay in the inner cores of spirit beasts or rare and precious herbs, and—above all—just as an ordinary beast steeped in a vein's energy would transform into a spirit creature, so a warrior who breathed that dense energy while refining his cultivation method could raise the efficiency of his qi accumulation several times over.

"Hssssssss..."

And now, in this very moment—

"Hooooooooh..."

I could feel it with vivid clarity: the natural qi mingled into every breath I drew, denser and purer than that of most spiritual veins.

To sense natural qi of this quality not in some hushed valley deep in the mountains, but in a fortress city where tens of thousands swarmed and thronged, was something my past-life common sense could scarcely credit.

It would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠be hard to believe that Perseus—the great hero who founded Mycenae, the Master of Ten Thousand Weapons who cut off Medusa's head draped from crown to toe in divine armaments: Athena's shield, Hermes' sandals, Hades' helm, Hera's magic pouch, and—no, the list does not end there—Ares' curved sword—had in truth been a master of geomancy who read the auspicious flow of qi coiling through this land and chose his city's site accordingly.

After all, even a warrior exceptional enough to serve as a prince's sword instructor seemed to know nothing of substance about qi, or the study of handling it.

Then why was the nature of Mycenae so brimming over with qi? Because Mycenae was a city graced by the favor of Hera, the august queen of the gods?

Probably not.

Far more likely it was because this was a world where nine-headed serpents, giants, dragons, and sea monsters—creatures boasting a size and majesty nearer to divine beasts than to any common spirit creature—still drew breath, and where heroes born of the gods' own blood won everlasting fame by slaying such monsters.

The mystery that in my past life had faded naturally over the thousands of years since the ancient age remained here untouched—and so the qi, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mystery's very wellspring, could hardly be anything but far denser and more potent than in the Central Plains.

In other words, an environment nothing short of ideal for training in the martial arts. Pure natural qi filled heaven and earth in every direction, as though a mighty spiritual vein ran beneath the city itself—no need to go hunting for some high peak or hidden hollow.

And I was, perhaps, the only person in this world who knew the way to make that overflowing energy entirely my own.

"See that no one enters my room until I come out. Not even my little brothers... Menelaus or Aegisthus. Should anything happen, knock on the door and let me know."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Having left those instructions with the maid, I shut the door firmly behind me. Lowering myself onto the hard, cold floor, I laid each instep across the opposite thigh and straightened my spine.

To a young child's body, unaccustomed to seated meditation, the posture felt rather awkward—but I would be taking it every day from here on, and it would grow familiar soon enough. Calmly folding myself into the full lotus position, I closed both eyes.

The heroes of this world, it seemed, kept their bodies hale across the long years by virtue of the divine power lodged in the golden blood of the gods—ichor—that ran in their veins; but that was closer to the life of a spirit beast than to any warrior's art.

But as I said before, the martial arts is a study of pursuing what lies beyond one's birth. And every martial art begins with its cultivation method, and at the heart of that method, the practice of breathing.

Somehow, even this comes back to a line from that damned Zhuangzi: breathing, in a word, means drawing into yourself as much of the natural qi suffusing all creation as you can hold, expelling the stale and turbid among it, and taking the good into the body.

Just as a smith heats the iron and hammers it, over and over, to skim the impurities from the billet and win metal of high purity, a warrior takes the energy of nature into his body through breathing and the circulation of qi, through guiding the flow and tempering the breath—and refines it in a manner all his own.

To store in the dantian this qi—tamed, through the circulation of breath, to fit each person's inborn constitution and the arts they had learned—was what the trade called accumulating qi: the heaping up of energy.

Beasts, and most ordinary humans besides, do nothing all their lives but spend down, little by little, the qi they were born with. Warriors who had mastered a cultivation method, however, converted external qi into inner power of their own—and with it brought forth strength beyond what is granted to humankind.

My body had grown small, but my mind was another matter entirely. Within the head of one who had climbed to the most exalted of realms in a past life through his own martial arts, the proud cultivation methods of the jianghu and the murim remained stored away, wholly intact.

Perfect the Prajna Great Power Art, and the mere gathering of one's presence would suffice to bring the most wicked demons crashing to their knees. Perfect the Heavenly Thunder Emperor Divine Art, and mighty bolts of lightning would pour down from one's entire body. And were one to fill a single sword to the brim with the energy of the Violet Mist Divine Art, one might—just as the Sword Empress once had—stain a corner of the heavens the color of sunset.

Of course, each and every one of these was a signature divine art of the great sects known as the Nine Sects and One Gang and the Five Great Families—and by their principle that such learning never passes beyond the gate, its leaking out into the world was something that could never have been condoned.

To destroy the Demonic Cult. To save the world. And for the sake of the future descendants who would one day live on in a jianghu without them.

Such was the legacy my comrades of a past life had entrusted to me.

A prince's station, a strong and comely frame... these, too, were treasures beyond all appraising—the most precious assets this rebirth had placed in my hands.

But at this very moment, what I meant to learn was none of those divine arts.

The martial way I would walk for the rest of this life—the entry technique that would fix its very direction—had long since been decided.

"Primal Chaos Formless Art."

I murmured the name aloud.