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Chapter 24 - The Crucible of Choice

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He feels vaguely like an old, wrung out dishrag by the time he’s finally finished the process of purging his Qi. Lao Yi is mildly sympathetic at best, watching him stumble to his feet with an almost nostalgic expression on his face.

Zhujiao wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his legs trembling as he tried to steady himself. The world around him feels muted, like a fog has descended over his senses, dulling the vibrant colours and sharp sounds that he had once taken for granted. Even the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot seems distant, as if he’s hearing it through a thick wall.

“You look like you’ve been through the wringer,” Lao Yi comments dryly, his tone bordering on amusement. The older man leans against the counter, his arms folded across his chest, and his expression is one of mild interest, as if observing a particularly intriguing insect. “How does it feel to be rid of all that tainted Qi?”

“Mostly just exhausting,” Zhujiao admits, his voice hoarse. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this weak before.”

“Relish the sensation, my boy,” Lao Yi announced, spreading his arms dramatically, “This may well be the last time you ever feel the shackles of mortality so keenly.”

Zhujiao raised an eyebrow, too tired to verbally ask what his master had been smoking. Lao Yi caught the glance anyway and coughed somewhat awkwardly.

“Don’t give me that look, Apprentice, I’m just trying to give the moment some gravitas.”

Zhujiao’s eyebrow climbed higher.

“It’s true!” his master protested. “You know, most cultivators have a much more appropriate sense of occasion,” he sniffed haughtily. “You’re lucky I’m so understanding of your eccentricities, my boy.”

Had he not seen the gleam of amusement in the old man’s eyes, Zhujiao might have believed him. That said, his comment did raise some questions Zhujiao had kicking around in the back of his mind.

“What are most cultivators like, Master?” he asked, slumping against the wall and hoping to buy some time to recover before he was assigned an even more unpleasant task. Lao Yi looked over at him knowingly but obliged the unspoken request.

“I suppose that would technically fall under the aegis of information you need to know to stay alive,” he granted magnanimously. “To put it bluntly, my boy, most cultivators are incredibly arrogant and thin-skinned. They will take even the slightest inconvenience as a grave insult and seek to repay that insult with violence.”

His master’s matter-of-fact tone did nothing to detract from the message, which Zhujiao had trouble believing. Surely cultivators couldn’t be that bad, right?

Lao Yi chuckled softly as he voiced the thought.

“Ah, the naivety of youth. Trust me, Apprentice, the world of cultivation is nothing like the one you’ve known. In their eyes, power isn’t just the ability to crush your enemies; it’s a status symbol, a marker of your worth as a human being. The stronger you are, the more respect you command—and the less likely anyone is to cross you.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. “To them, any challenge to their authority, no matter how small, is an affront to their very existence. The higher you climb in the ranks of cultivation, the more unforgiving the world becomes. Rules? Laws? Those are for the weak, the mortals. Cultivators operate on a different set of principles entirely.”

Zhujiao frowned, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. “So… if someone, say, accidentally bumps into a powerful cultivator, they could just… kill them? Just like that?”

Lao Yi nodded, his expression placid despite the nature of his words. “Indeed. And many would, without a second thought. To them, it’s not murder—it’s maintaining the natural order. The weak must know their place, and the strong enforce it. Of course, not all cultivators are bloodthirsty tyrants, but enough are that you need to be careful. Offend the wrong person, and you might not live to see the next sunrise.”

Fantastic.

Not only had he found out that all of his efforts over the last few years had been useless at best and downright harmful at worst, it also turned out that being a cultivator was apparently synonymous with being a monster.

Good thing he hadn’t sacrificed anything to get this far.

Oh, wait.

“So I should basically avoid anyone stronger than me,” Zhujiao said, a trace of bitterness creeping into his voice. It wasn’t the life he had envisioned when he first set out on this path.

Lao Yi gave a dry laugh. “That’s one way to look at it. But remember, strength isn’t always visible. Just because someone appears weak doesn’t mean they are. And just because someone is powerful doesn’t mean they’re invincible. The real trick is to avoid unnecessary conflicts and to choose your battles wisely. And when you do have to fight—fight to win.”

Zhujiao nodded reluctantly. As grim as it may be, the advice was sound.

“Of course, that’s not terribly useful if you’re too weak to survive fighting, but we can work on that,” his master continued humorously. “I think you’ve had long enough to lounge about – time to get to work.”

Zhujiao groaned but straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall. If nothing else, hopefully whatever his master had him doing next would take his mind off matters.

***

Surprisingly enough, it did – and not even in the painful, exhausting way he half-expected.

Lao Yi led Zhujiao to a small, cluttered table in the corner of the clinic, covered with an assortment of scrolls, herbs, and remedies. The older man gestured for him to sit, and Zhujiao obliged, still feeling the residual weakness from the purging process but curious enough to push it aside.

“Before we dive into the more practical side of cultivation,” Lao Yi began, settling into the chair across from him, “it’s crucial that you understand the fundamentals. Cultivation, in essence, can be divided into two primary paths: the physical and the mental,” Lao Yi explained, his tone taking on a more lecturing quality. “The path you were on—the physical path—is what most people think of when they hear the term ‘cultivation.’ It’s a path of quick gains, of immediate power, but it’s also fraught with dangers.”

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He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “The physical path emphasises the accumulation of Qi and its use in reinforcing the body. It’s what spirit beasts do instinctively, and it’s the path favoured by unorthodox sects or rogue cultivators who seek power above all else. It grants strength rapidly, allows for significant leaps in physical ability, and can even extend one’s lifespan considerably. But it comes at a cost.”

Zhujiao’s brow furrowed. “The cost being…?”

“Your mind,” Lao Yi said bluntly. “The physical path exerts immense pressure on the psyche. As the body grows stronger, the mind struggles to keep pace. Over time, this creates a dissonance—a conflict between the body’s newfound power and the mind’s ability to control it. This manifests in various ways, depending on the individual, but generally, it begins with a loosening of inhibitions, a gradual erosion of higher-order thinking, and increased aggression. The more you rely on the physical path, the more these effects intensify.”

Zhujiao frowned, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he recognised some of those symptoms in himself. He hadn’t realised it before, but looking back, his decisions had become increasingly reckless, his temper shorter. He had attributed it to the stress of his situation, but now…

“Is that why I was so… reckless with the beast core?” he asked, the realisation dawning on him.

“Partially,” Lao Yi confirmed, his gaze steady. “The physical path amplifies your instincts, your base desires. It makes you crave power, pushing you to take risks that you might otherwise avoid. That’s why many who walk this path end up consumed by it, turning into something more beast than man. It’s a dangerous road, and while it has its uses, it’s not one to be taken lightly.”

Zhujiao nodded slowly, digesting the information. Looking back at his decisions now that he had cleared his dantian of the remaining energy was… odd. It wasn’t like he had been a completely different person or anything – the choices he made were still choices he would make, just…

The only thing he could really compare it to was being tipsy. A sort of hazy self-confidence that whispered, ‘Of course you can do a handstand; just try it!’.

The medical attention required in the aftermath was about the same, too.

“But there is another way,” Lao Yi continued, his tone shifting slightly. “The mental path is significantly slower, more deliberate, and infinitely safer. While a practitioner of the physical path may replenish their Qi by drawing directly from outside sources, a cultivator practising the mental path must carefully cycle the energy through their meridians, purifying it of any influence before accepting it into their dantian.”

Zhujiao listened intently, intrigued. “So is the only difference that mental cultivators purify the Qi first? That’s enough to remove the negative influence?”

“Not entirely,” Lao Yi answered. “Rather than using Qi to reinforce the body, it’s used to enhance your mental faculties, your understanding of the world, and your ability to manipulate the energy around and within you. This does have the side effect of enhancing physical abilities, but it is not the purpose, and as such is not as effective.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. “The orthodox path – of mental enhancement – requires patience, discipline, and a willingness to forgo the allure of quick power. But in the long run, it’s far more sustainable. You will never be as physically powerful as someone who has walked the unorthodox path, but you’ll have control, a sharpness of mind that can outmanoeuvre brute strength.”

Zhujiao nodded, thinking it over. It made sense – or at least he vaguely understood, which was honestly the best he could hope for at this point.

“So how do I start cultivating the orthodox way then?” he asked, somehow already knowing the answer was going to be either tedious, painful, or exhausting.

Knowing his luck, it would be all three at the same time.

“I’m glad you asked, Apprentice!” Lao Yi chirped gleefully. “The actual process of purifying external Qi involves cycling it through your meridians before it can reach your dantian.”

His master paused expectantly.

“So how do I cycle it through my meridians, then?” Zhujiao asked obligingly, rolling his eyes.

“Another excellent question! You see, my boy, the exact placement of meridians is unique for each person – though, of course, the general layout is similar. Most cultivators would spend the next several months or years painstakingly mapping out their meridians and learning the best way to cycle their Qi through them.”

Zhujiao narrowed his eyes. “Why do I get the impression that that’s not how I’m going to be doing it?”

“Because you have excellent instincts, of course!” Lao Yi grinned. It was not as pleasant an expression as one would expect from a smile. “You see, I’ve always theorised that it’s possible for someone else to map out a student’s meridians. If I’m correct, it will massively speed up the process – there’s no need for a student to clumsily map out their Qi channels and develop a cycling method when their master can do it for them! Really, I’m doing you a massive favour here. Assuming it works.”

On the surface, it seemed eminently reasonable, which is why Zhujiao didn’t believe it for a second. If it were really that easy, everyone would be doing it – or at least, people would have tried it, and his master would already know if it worked or not.

“So… what’s the catch then?” he asked cautiously.

“Ah… right.” Lao Yi actually seemed hesitant, which set off all sorts of alarms. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this – injecting your Qi into somebody with an already existing Qi network is excruciatingly painful.”

He paused for a moment. “For the recipient,” he clarified, “I’ll be fine, of course.”

“Of course,” Zhujiao said flatly.

Lao Yi sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that Zhujiao wasn’t used to seeing from the typically confident master. “Look, Apprentice, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. The process is going to hurt—a lot. In fact, it’ll be sufficiently painful that I’m not going to force you into it. If you’d rather take the traditional route, spending months or even years mapping your meridians and developing your own cycling technique, that’s perfectly valid.”

Zhujiao bit the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. The traditional route sounded safe, or at least safer. Pain wasn’t something he was eager to experience again, not after everything he’d already gone through. But the prospect of spending years fumbling through the process on his own was equally unappealing.

Lao Yi continued, sensing Zhujiao’s internal conflict. “I want to be clear—while the theory behind this method is sound, it’s never actually been done before. You’d be the first, so there’s a level of risk involved. That said, I’m confident in my abilities. The worst-case scenario is that you experience a lot of pain for nothing—no damage, no setbacks, just some wasted time and discomfort.”

“But if it works,” he added, his tone shifting to something more serious, “you’ll have a cycling technique designed by a true master. Not only will it save you months, if not years, of work, but it will also give you a foundation far stronger than anything you could develop on your own at this stage. You’ll be starting your cultivation journey with a significant advantage, one that could make all the difference in the long run.”

Zhujiao sat back in his chair, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He knew Lao Yi wasn’t trying to manipulate him; the old man was being unusually straightforward about the risks and rewards. Still, the idea of subjecting himself to unknown pain wasn’t something he could agree to lightly.

Then again… he was hardly a stranger to pain at this point.

And really, a bit of pain now for something that would pay dividends for the rest of his life? That wasn’t so bad.

Or at least, he didn’t think it would be that bad. Considering how severe Lao Yi was being about this, maybe the pain was significantly worse than he thought.

The real question was if he would look back on this moment and see a wasted opportunity or not. The whole point of having a teacher was to trust that his master had his best interests at heart – if he wanted to screw Zhujiao over, there were significantly easier ways.

“I understand if you want to take some time to think about it,” Lao Yi said, breaking the silence. “This isn’t a decision to be made lightly. But if you do decide to go through with it, know that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it’s successful.”

Zhujiao nodded slowly, the seriousness of the moment sinking in. He had never imagined that cultivating would involve so much more than just gathering Qi and improving his physical strength. The mental aspect, the techniques, the strategies—it was all so much more complex than he had anticipated.

He took a deep breath, feeling the last remnants of exhaustion still clinging to him, but underneath it, there was a spark of determination. He had come too far to shy away now.

“I’ll do it,” Zhujiao said finally, his voice steady despite the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. “If it’ll save me that much time and give me an advantage, then it’s worth the risk.”

Lao Yi’s expression softened, a mixture of pride and approval in his eyes. “Good. You’ve made the right choice, Apprentice. I’ll prepare everything we need, and we’ll begin the process tomorrow. For now, get some rest—you’ll need all your strength for what’s to come.”