Lin Feng woke before dawn, which was unusual only because it implied he had actually slept. The thin straw mat beneath him might as well have been a sheet of paper for all the comfort it provided. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes while cataloging new aches in places he didn't know could ache.

"This is an improvement over the streets?" he muttered, surveying his new home.

The Beggars' Sect compound defied all expectations of what a prestigious martial arts sect should look like. Instead of imposing gates and ornate pavilions, it occupied a dilapidated warehouse with more holes than walls. Moonlight filtered through gaps in the roof, illuminating a dozen other children in various states of unconsciousness on similar mats.

"Up! The sun waits for no cultivator!" Lao Wei's voice boomed through the warehouse with the subtlety of a falling cart of pottery.

Most of the other children groaned and rolled over. Lin Feng, however, was already standing, a habit formed from years of needing to run at a moment's notice. "The sun isn't even up yet," he pointed out. "It's literally waiting for everyone."

Lao Wei appeared from the shadows like a particularly ragged ghost. "Ah, the little philosopher is already making observations." He proceeded to kick the other children awake with surprising enthusiasm. "Every moment spent horizontal is cultivation wasted!"

"Is that one of the sacred principles?" Lin Feng asked. "Because if so, I've seen plenty of horizontal cultivators in the pleasure district who might disagree."

Lao Wei shot him a sharp look that slowly morphed into reluctant amusement. "That mouth will either get you killed or make you famous. Follow me."

As they headed toward a back door, Lin Feng could feel the glares from the other initiates burning into his back. Wonderful. First day, and he'd already been singled out as the teacher's pet. He'd need to sleep with one eye open—assuming he got to sleep at all.

They emerged into a small courtyard hidden between buildings, barely large enough for a handful of people. Despite the surrounding squalor, the space had been meticulously swept clean. In the center stood a large earthen jar with a cracked rim.

"Do you know why the Beggars' Sect has outlasted countless 'superior' sects?" Lao Wei asked, circling the jar like it was a priceless treasure.

"Superior hygiene standards?" Lin Feng ventured.

"Because we understand emptiness," Lao Wei continued, ignoring the quip. He tapped the jar, producing a hollow sound. "What is the use of a jar, boy?"

Lin Feng eyed the container suspiciously. "Based on your dramatic presentation, I'm guessing it's not 'to hold water' like any normal person would answer."

"Precisely! It's to hold things!" Lao Wei exclaimed, then paused. "Wait, no, you're missing the point. What gives it this ability?"

"Poor career choices? A jar can't exactly become a merchant or government official."

Lao Wei sighed deeply. "Its emptiness! If the jar were solid clay, it would be useless." He fixed Lin Feng with an intense stare. "The same is true of people. Those who fill themselves with pride, with possessions, with predetermined notions—they become solid clay, unable to receive anything new."

Lin Feng glanced down at his body, thin enough to count ribs through his tattered shirt. "Well, I've certainly mastered emptiness, particularly in the stomach region. Am I a cultivation genius already?"

"You jest, but there's truth in your words," Lao Wei said. "You, little rat, are gloriously empty. No parents to fill you with their expectations. No wealth to weigh you down. No reputation to defend. You are a perfect vessel."

"When you put it that way, it sounds less like an advantage and more like a list of tragedies," Lin Feng muttered.

"What matters is what will fill you now," Lao Wei said, producing a worn copper coin from his robes. "Hold out your hand."

Lin Feng complied, half-expecting some kind of trick. The coin was placed in his palm, its edges smooth from years of circulation.

"Close your fingers around it," Lao Wei instructed. "Tight enough to hold it, loose enough that it can turn."

"Is this where you teach me a magical coin trick to impress rich people into giving me money? Because I already know three."

"Focus on the coin," Lao Wei continued, ignoring the interruption. "Feel its weight, its temperature, the texture of the metal."

Lin Feng squeezed the coin, his expression skeptical but curious.

"Now close your eyes and imagine the coin growing warmer—not from your body heat, but from within itself. Picture a tiny flame inside the metal, heating it gradually."

Lin Feng closed his eyes, face scrunching with concentration. "If this is a distraction so you can steal my shoes, I should warn you they're barely shoes at this point."

"The warmth you're imagining is not just heat—it's energy. Qi. It exists in all things, even a discarded coin that no one values. Feel it spreading from the coin to your fingers, then your palm, then your wrist."

Minutes passed in silence, interrupted only by the distant sounds of the city awakening. Lin Feng's arm began to tremble slightly from maintaining the position, but his face showed deepening concentration.

"Most cultivators begin by circulating their own qi," Lao Wei continued, his voice lower now. "But the Vagrant Cloud Path teaches us to first recognize and borrow qi from our surroundings. A beggar doesn't start with a full bowl—he must first recognize what can fill it."

Lin Feng's eyes suddenly snapped open. "It moved!"

"The coin?"

"No, something... inside it. Or maybe inside my hand." Lin Feng stared at his palm in genuine surprise. "Like water flowing under ice. Or... like an itch you can't quite reach, but pleasant."

Lao Wei's weathered face creased into a smile. "Very good, little philosopher. Most take weeks to sense anything at all."

"Really?" Lin Feng looked suspiciously pleased before catching himself. "I mean, obviously. I've always been exceptional at feeling things that may or may not be there. Ask anyone about my stomach pains before receiving free food."

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"That sensation is the first whisper of qi answering your call," Lao Wei explained, ignoring Lin Feng's deflection. "The coin contains very little—it's inorganic and separated from living energy for years. But even the smallest stream can eventually carve canyons through mountains with enough time."

He took the coin back and returned it to his robes. "You will practice this exercise three times daily—dawn, noon, and dusk. Each time with a different object. A stone, a leaf, a splinter of wood. Learn to recognize how qi feels different in each."

"A fascinating homework assignment," Lin Feng nodded. "Quick question though—when do we get to the part where I learn to shoot lightning from my fingertips? I have a list of people I'd like to introduce to that particular skill."

"But first," Lao Wei continued with narrowed eyes, "you must earn your keep. No one eats in the Beggars' Sect without contributing."

Lin Feng's momentary enthusiasm faded. "Let me guess: actual begging?"

"The same way we all do," Lao Wei confirmed, gesturing toward the city beyond the walls. "How else would we be called the Beggars' Sect? The Occasional Solicitors' Sect? The Ask Nicely For Alms Association?"

Lin Feng's expression soured. He had done many things to survive—stolen food, scavenged in refuse piles, even worked odd jobs when desperation overcame caution. But begging had always seemed like surrender. "There's really no alternative? I'm quite skilled at liberating unattended goods from negligent owners."

"Pride, little rat? Already?" Lao Wei clicked his tongue. "Pride is solid clay. It fills you, leaves no room for growth."

"It's not pride," Lin Feng protested. "It's practicality. People ignore beggars. Or worse."

"Precisely why it's the perfect training," Lao Wei replied with infuriating logic. "To be seen while being unseen. To be heard while being ignored. These contradictions are the essence of the Vagrant Cloud Path."

He produced a small wooden bowl, cracked along one edge and worn smooth by countless hands. "You will take this to the market district. You will not steal. You will not threaten. You will simply ask, and observe, and remember."

Lin Feng took the bowl with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a dead rat. "And if I choose not to participate in this character-building exercise?"

"Then you don't eat," Lao Wei shrugged. "Your goal is ten copper coins or their equivalent in food before sundown. Succeed, and you join us for dinner. Fail, and you fast until tomorrow's attempt."

"And my actual cultivation training?" Lin Feng asked. "The part where I become an invincible martial artist capable of defeating my enemies with a single withering glance?"

Lao Wei's laugh echoed through the courtyard. "This IS cultivation training, little rat! While you beg, you will practice sensing the qi in every coin placed in your bowl. In every glance directed your way. In every word spoken to you, kind or cruel."

He pointed to the earthen jar. "Remember the lesson of the vessel. As you empty your bowl of expectations, it becomes capable of receiving unexpected gifts."

Lin Feng looked down at the wooden bowl, weighing it in his hands. "So your profound wisdom boils down to 'go beg for money and think about emptiness'? Three thousand years of secret cultivation techniques, and that's the best the Beggars' Sect has to offer?"

"One final instruction," Lao Wei said, ignoring the barb. "Observe the other beggars in the market. Some are our sect members, some are not. Learn to tell the difference."

"How will I know? Do they have a secret handshake? A particular way of scratching their noses? Matching tattoos in unfortunate places?"

Lao Wei's eyes twinkled. "That, little philosopher, is your second lesson."

---

The market district of Jinlian City pulsed with midday activity like a hive of particularly loud and smelly bees. Lin Feng sat cross-legged near a tea house, his bowl placed strategically in a shaft of sunlight that highlighted both it and his thin frame.

Three hours had yielded exactly two copper coins and half a steamed bun, the latter given by an old woman who had muttered something about accumulating merit as she shuffled away.

"Qi sensing isn't going so well either," Lin Feng muttered to himself. "Unless starvation counts as a mystical sensation, in which case I'm having a very spiritual experience."

He had tried various approaches—sitting silently, calling out to passersby, even attempting what he called his "professional pitiful face." Nothing seemed particularly effective. People walked past as if he were made of air.

His gaze drifted to other beggars scattered throughout the market. An old man with one leg lounged near a spice merchant's stall. A woman with two small children huddled near the well. A middle-aged man with cloudy eyes tapped a walking stick as he navigated the crowd.

Lin Feng studied them with growing interest. Their clothes were all ragged, their appearances deliberately unkempt. But something about their positioning struck him as deliberate.

As he watched, a plump merchant in silk robes approached the one-legged beggar. The merchant's face wore an expression of annoyed resignation as he tossed a coin. The beggar caught it with surprising dexterity, bowing deeply from his seated position.

"Wait a minute," Lin Feng murmured. "The merchant approached him, not the other way around."

He shifted his attention to the blind man. Unlike most beggars who stayed in one place, this man moved through the crowd, his walking stick tapping an oddly rhythmic pattern. People stepped aside, sometimes dropping coins into the pouch hanging from his belt.

"It's like he's collecting debts, not charity," Lin Feng realized.

A commotion near the fruit seller's stall drew his attention. The woman with children was being berated by a guard for blocking the path. But instead of cowering, she held her ground, gesturing to her children with one hand while the other made subtle movements at her side, hidden from the guard's view.

Within moments, three separate merchants approached, offering placating words to the guard and small parcels of food to the woman.

Lin Feng's eyes widened with revelation. "They're not just asking—they're creating situations where giving becomes the obvious choice."

He looked down at his meager collection. His approach had been entirely passive, waiting for generosity that rarely materialized. But the sect members—and he was now certain he had identified them—created their own opportunities.

"I've been thinking about this all wrong," Lin Feng muttered. "It's not about looking pathetic enough for pity. It's about making the act of giving seem like the most natural response."

Taking a deep breath, he picked up his bowl and relocated. He positioned himself near the entrance to the tea house, sitting just beside the doorway rather than directly in front of it. As patrons entered and exited, he remained silent but made brief eye contact, then looked away as if embarrassed by his need.

His first attempt earned him nothing but annoyed glances. His second, with slightly adjusted positioning that caught the afternoon light in a way that illuminated his thin frame without appearing deliberate, earned a dismissive toss of two copper coins.

"Progress," Lin Feng whispered, focusing on the coins as Lao Wei had instructed. He closed his eyes briefly, seeking that elusive sensation he had felt in the courtyard. There—faint but unmistakable, like a whisper in a crowded room. The coins carried traces of qi from their previous owner, subtle but distinct.

With growing confidence, Lin Feng refined his approach. He noticed how the woman with children positioned herself downwind of the food stalls, letting the aroma remind potential donors of their own good fortune. He observed how the blind man's walking stick created a rhythm that subtly influenced people to reach for their coin purses.

"It's like a performance where the audience doesn't know they're watching," he realized. "And they're rewarding the performance without knowing they've been entertained."

By sunset, Lin Feng's bowl contained eleven copper coins, a bruised peach that was perfectly edible if you avoided the brown spots, and half a flatbread. More importantly, he had begun to sense the faint traces of qi in each donation—different signatures of energy as unique as fingerprints.

When he returned to the compound, Lao Wei was waiting in the courtyard, seated cross-legged beside the earthen jar with his eyes closed.

"Your results?" the older beggar asked without looking up.

Lin Feng displayed his day's earnings with a flourish. "One copper more than required, plus bonus food. Do I get extra credit?"

Lao Wei opened one eye, glanced at the bowl, and nodded. "And what did you learn beyond how to fill your stomach?"

"That begging is an art form the imperial opera could learn from," Lin Feng replied. "Your sect members don't just receive—they orchestrate circumstances where giving becomes the natural conclusion to a story the donor doesn't even realize they're participating in."

Both of Lao Wei's eyes opened now, his interest evident. "You identified our members?"

"Three for certain," Lin Feng confirmed. "A one-legged man near the spice merchant who has two perfectly good legs, I'd wager. A 'blind' man whose stick tapping hypnotizes people into generosity. And a woman with two children who creates just enough public conflict to attract protective merchants."

Lao Wei's weathered face split into a genuine grin. "Well done, little philosopher! Most initiates take weeks to see the patterns." He gestured for Lin Feng to sit beside him. "And the qi sensing?"

"Each coin carries a different... signature," Lin Feng said, searching for the right words. "Like each has a memory of the hands that held it. Some feel warm, others cool. Some feel heavy with reluctance, others light with goodwill."

"The Vagrant Cloud Path begins with this understanding," Lao Wei said, his voice taking on the cadence of formal instruction. "All things carry qi. All qi carries essence. All essence can be borrowed, redirected, and transformed."

He pointed to Lin Feng's bowl. "Tomorrow, you will return those coins to the market."

Lin Feng's expression fell faster than a merchant's smile when discovering counterfeit currency. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard you through the sound of my stomach rumbling. Did you just say I need to give back the money I spent all day collecting?"

"Fear not. You may keep the food. But the coins must circulate back into the world."

"That seems counterproductive to the whole 'beggar' identity we're cultivating here," Lin Feng protested.

"Because a vessel that never empties cannot be refilled with something new," Lao Wei replied with the patience of someone who had delivered this speech countless times. "You have drawn qi and essence from these coins. Now you must release them to gather more."

He rose to his feet with surprising fluidity for one who appeared so decrepit. "Eat, rest, and prepare. Tomorrow your real training begins."

"If this wasn't real training, I'm concerned about what comes next," Lin Feng muttered as Lao Wei walked away. "Probably standing on one foot in a lightning storm while reciting bad poetry."

He looked down at his day's earnings with mixed emotions. The prospect of giving away his hard-won coins stung, but the promise of "real training" kindled reluctant curiosity.

He bit into the bruised peach, its sweet juice a luxury after days of hunger. As he ate, Lin Feng tried again to sense the qi within the fruit—the energy of the tree that had grown it, the sun that had ripened it, the hands that had deemed it unworthy of selling.

For just a moment, he felt a complex web of connections, as if the peach's journey was somehow interwoven with his own—disparate paths converging at this precise moment of consumption.

The sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Lin Feng wondering if his imagination was getting carried away with Lao Wei's mystical nonsense.

One thing was certain: the path ahead would be neither easy nor predictable. But for the first time since losing his parents, Lin Feng felt something beyond mere survival instinct.

He felt curiosity. And perhaps—though he'd never admit it—a tiny spark of hope.

"Fine," he said to no one in particular. "I'll play along with your mystical beggar cult. But I'm still keeping the flatbread."