Jin Xuanji awoke not with the startled gasp of a man jolted from slumber, but rather with the deliberate stillness of one who had been meditating within the storm of his own soul, and as his eyes opened, there was a flicker—faint but unmistakable—of light that danced across his irises like the sun glancing off the edge of a blade too sharp for its own good. His breath, once erratic and shallow like a hunted animal, now moved in deep waves, rhythmic and calm, drawing in the energy of the world around him and releasing it as if his very lungs had learned to inhale the essence of the heavens.
The basement around him had not changed—its air was still heavy with the scent of old stone, damp earth, and faint traces of blood long dried into the cracks of the floor—but somehow, to him, it felt like the entire space had widened, or perhaps, it was he who had expanded, as if his very presence now bent the space around him into silence. His skin tingled, not with discomfort, but with power, and his muscles, though lean, pulsed with a tension that reminded him of drawn bowstrings held in place by will alone.
He rose slowly, his body light, yet grounded, as if the heaviness of the past had been shed like a second skin during the eight hours of intense cultivation, and when he looked at his hands—those same hands that once trembled to hold a wooden training sword in his youth—they now felt foreign, as though they belonged to someone who had truly begun to grasp the path of power rather than just dream of it in the dark.
'This progress...' he thought, narrowing his eyes, '...it's far faster than anything I experienced in my previous life, even when I first took the Floweresa Pill under Elder Han's guidance…' and there was a moment, a flickering doubt, where he almost wondered if the regression had also amplified the affinity of his body to the cultivation world, or perhaps his determination had reached such fanatical sharpness that even pills now bowed to his desire.
His Qi, once a mere whisper within his dantian—a flickering candle in an abyss—now surged with vibrant flow, like a river that had broken through a dam long cracked and now finally shattered, and as he lightly tested the flow, it coiled around his meridians smoothly, without resistance, without pain, like a loyal serpent returning to its master after a long winter. The scent of the basement's mildew and blood had faded beneath a soft fragrance—floral, faint, and ghostly—that now seemed to radiate from him, a lingering remnant of the Floweresa Pill's spiritual bloom.
He exhaled slowly, and to his surprise, a visible wisp of Qi followed his breath, coiling in the air like morning mist stirred by wind, and both of the masked men, who had stood guard this entire time without moving a single inch or uttering a single word, took a half-step back—not out of fear, no, their expressions behind the masks could not be seen, but something primal in them recognized that the man before them was no longer the same trembling boy who had descended the stairs just hours ago.
It wasn't just his cultivation that had grown; it was the pressure, the presence, the sheer feeling that Jin Xuanji now gave off, one that whispered of unspeakable things—of pain endured, of betrayal survived, of deaths remembered—and the basement, once larger than life in its scale and eerie shadows, now felt like it had shrunken slightly beneath the weight of his awakened aura.
'No, this... this isn't just the pill,' he thought, brows knitting slightly, 'This is me. This is the culmination of every moment I died, every humiliation I swallowed, every time I screamed in silence before I regressed… and now, it all flows with the Qi in my veins.'
Jin Xuanji lifted his palm, and without consciously invoking any technique, a thin stream of silver-white Qi rose gently like smoke from his skin, and even this small, accidental release gave off a thrum of power, subtle but undeniable, the kind of pressure that made even seasoned cultivators look twice. His fingers curled, and the energy followed, and for a moment, he felt the familiar rhythm of one of Elder Han's techniques in his blood, the [Heavenly 20 Palm Strikes], not being used, but quietly waiting, like a sword in its scabbard, aware that its master had returned.
He turned toward the two masked guards, who still had not moved nor spoken, and his eyes met the dull reflection in the polished metal of one of their masks—he barely recognized the figure that stared back. This version of Jin Xuanji was no longer just the underdog, the survivor, the joke among cultivators who had once been pitied and ignored; he was something else now—something tempered by past lives, forged by pain, and shaped by the twisted path that fate had so cruelly and kindly handed him.
The silence stretched until, at last, the thick iron door behind him creaked open, and down the stairs descended Jin Wei, holding a tray with a bowl of congee, a jar of pickled vegetables, and a flask of cheap wine like it was the breakfast of champions. His brother's eyes met his, and for a moment, Jin Wei halted, his lips twitching in hesitation, as though even he was not sure if the one standing before him was still the same person he knew.
"You done?" Jin Wei asked casually, though the faint tremor in his voice betrayed the unease he was trying to mask beneath his usual facade of indifference and wine-soaked jokes.
Jin Xuanji nodded, his voice calm, but laced with something colder, deeper, "Yes. I've broken through. And I feel like I'm only getting started."
Jin Wei scratched his cheek and muttered, "Scary little bastard," before handing him the tray, though his hands lingered a second longer than necessary, like he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his big brother—once the butt of the village's jokes was now radiating the kind of pressure that made even grown men want to look away.
Xuanji sat, accepted the food, and though he ate mechanically, his mind was elsewhere, deep in calculations and contemplation, thinking of what his next steps would be now that he had not only cultivated the Floweresa Pill, but surpassed the expectations even his past self had for this stage. 'If I've already reached this level... then what lies beyond? What new walls are waiting to be broken?'
The answer, of course, would come soon enough—but for now, in the quiet basement of a sect hidden beneath a bar filled with drunken warriors and darker secrets, Jin Xuanji smiled slightly, a curl of amusement mixed with quiet madness.
'Heh... if Elder Han could see me now… he'd probably hit me over the head for using the wrong breathing technique and then call me a genius in the same sentence.'
The stillness that followed his cultivation felt almost fragile, like a thin sheet of ice forming over a river that had only just begun to calm after a long, furious storm, and as Jin Xuanji sat in silence, his fingers lightly brushing the surface of the now-empty congee bowl, his thoughts began to drift—not toward comfort, nor victory, but toward the future that now lay open to him like an unguarded road after years of locked doors and false ends. The surge of Qi in his meridians no longer strained against his body like an unwelcome intruder; instead, it flowed harmoniously, powerfully, and with an ease that spoke of some profound unlocking, a release of bindings that had once shackled his spirit like chains woven by fate itself.
And it was precisely because of this newfound clarity and freedom that his mind wandered—no, returned—to a memory carved deep into the bones of his past life, one that had not resurfaced in years, not until now, when the body and the spirit finally stood ready to bear its weight again. Elder Han, in the quiet days before betrayal, before the world had gone black and red and silent, had once pulled him aside in the desolate courtyard of Mount Langxu, where the wind never stopped and the stars always seemed close enough to whisper secrets, and there, beneath the swaying moonflowers and crumbling pillars, he had spoken with uncharacteristic gravity of a martial art not written in scrolls nor shared among sect disciples—a technique only passed to one student in a generation, should such a student ever exist.
It had been called Flowing River Heavenly Fist, a name both poetic and deceptively simple, yet the art itself had possessed a complexity and depth that few could survive attempting to learn, let alone master, and Jin Xuanji remembered now—vividly, achingly—how Elder Han's expression had changed as he demonstrated its first form, his eyes distant and his breath aligned with the clouds, like a man trying to hold back the current of something too vast for words. The technique was not about brute strength nor speed nor the flashiness that young cultivators often chased—it was a doctrine, a philosophy turned into movement, designed to harness the flow of internal energy like water cascading down mountains, unstoppable not because of its violence, but because of its ceaselessness.
There were five moves, each named after a phase of the river's eternal journey, and each move carried within it a labyrinth of sequences, paths, and minute adjustments that could change the outcome of a battle completely. The first was Gentle Stream Breach, a move that looked delicate on the surface, but hid explosive force that flowed through the joints like rushing water breaking through cracks in rock. The second, Pebble-Eater Coil, used the enemy's force against them, like a river wrapping around a stone until erosion won. The third, Vein of Silver Depths, tapped into spiritual energy buried deep within the bones, turning it outward in bursts. The fourth, Tide-Splitting Rise, elevated the body into swift flowing arcs that could divide even air. And the final move—the one Elder Han had never shown him—was simply called Still River End… and to this day, Jin Xuanji did not know whether it referred to the ending of the river or the ending of the practitioner.
He stood now, eyes fixed not on memory, but on the present—sharp, clear, and brimming with intent—and as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the power in his limbs echo the familiar but long-unused rhythm of the Flowing River's forms, he turned toward the two masked men who had remained as silent as stones. His voice did not need to rise to command, for it carried now a weight, an edge carved by knowledge and a life once lost, "The two of you—attack me. Together. I want to test something."
There was no hesitation in their movement, only the barest moment of shifting posture, like trained beasts sensing the scent of challenge for the first time in years, and in the quiet hum of their preparation, Jin Xuanji took a single step forward, placing his left foot ever so slightly ahead, arms held loosely—not raised, not clenched, but open, ready to channel the Qi now coursing through him in fluid streams. He could feel it, deep within, the way the Flowing River Heavenly Fist wanted to emerge, the way each breath guided the current within him, how the pressure of the earth beneath his soles aligned with the tension in his waist and the stillness of his shoulders.
The masked men rushed in without warning, one from the front, the other from the right—fast, professional, coordinated in their approach like swords crossing in mid-air—and yet, to Jin Xuanji, their movements were like leaves falling into water, predictable, visible, and unable to disturb the surface. His hand moved—not fast, not forceful—but precisely, turning at the wrist in a circular motion that was the beginning of Gentle Stream Breach, and with a simple push against the attacking elbow of the first assailant, he redirected the force downward, shifting his body to the side in a spiral that sent the man crashing into the second just as he attempted a sweeping kick.
There was no pause, no flourish, just a constant, unbroken rhythm, and his body followed the next sequence without conscious thought, spine rotating with a smooth twist as he released a palm strike from the base of his hip to the side of the attacker's head, the energy within his meridian exploding at the point of contact—not like a hammer, but like a river carving through stone—and both masked men stumbled back, their feet skidding across the stone floor.
And still, Jin Xuanji did not chase, did not lunge—he simply stepped again, letting his Qi guide his momentum, his body bending and flowing like silk in water, and each movement he executed felt less like a martial technique and more like a return—like something ancient and intimate was awakening inside of him, stretching after a long, sorrowful sleep.
'Yes,' he thought, watching the masked men reset themselves with caution now flickering in their postures, 'This is it… this is the Flowing River… this is the art that Elder Han said only those who had walked through silence and suffering could understand…'
The power wasn't in the flash of strength, nor in the roar of Qi—it was in the gentleness of inevitability, in the way his palm touched and redirected, in the fluidity of his footwork that never resisted but never yielded, and in the seamless transitions between attack and defense, as though he were no longer fighting opponents but simply dancing with the nature of their movement.
By the time the fourth exchange came, Jin Xuanji had entered a rhythm that made even the masked men hesitant to strike, and their hesitation only deepened as they realized that every time they attacked, he was not repelling them—he was absorbing them into his tempo, his flow, until their speed slowed and their strength became liabilities.
A final rotation of his hips, a flick of the wrist, and the first masked man found himself disarmed and pinned by a single palm to the wall; a heartbeat later, the second knelt involuntarily, his own arm bent behind his back with an angle so precise it dared not resist, and then—all at once—the fight was over.
Jin Xuanji released both without a word, his expression unreadable, his breath calm and unhurried, and he looked down at his own hands, not in awe or pride, but in silent reflection.
'This is only the first move of the Flowing River Heavenly Fist… and already, it feels as though my body was made for it. Or perhaps… this art was waiting for me to return to this moment.'
He stepped back into stillness, letting the Qi settle, his form quiet once more, but the power within him now echoed like a song remembered.
The river had begun to flow again.