Quinming drifts just beneath the surface of awareness, barely clinging to consciousness.
The rich, bittersweet scent of medicinal herbs mixed with the ever-present brothel aroma anchors him to reality. And he finds himself clinging to these now familiar smells. The scent of his past with Tang Leifeng and his new present.
“You’ll heal, Quinming. You’re stronger than you think. And you're not alone,” a woman's voice, gentle and reassuring, filters through his haze. “Thankfully this dreadful fever is breaking. But still...” She sighs, fingers on his back tremble. “If only Mingxui were here, she would have known what to do. Would have expected never let this...”
“Your mother, Mingxui, was a remarkable woman,” Qian Yun murmurs as she applies a soothing salve. “She had a way of bringing light to even the darkest places. Everyone here loved her, courtesans, and servants alike.”
Her touch warms him, a stark contrast to his pain. Her words drift through his mind, not meant for him but resonating nonetheless.
“She had such grand plans, aligning with the Hao Sect’s new vision. She wanted to turn this place into a sanctuary, a home for these women. But Madam Li... she couldn’t let go. Their arguments were fierce, and then...”
“Qian Yun?” Quinming croaks, his voice barely audible. “What... happened?”
She jumps, startled. “You were feverish for days,” she replies softly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “But you’re getting better now. Just rest, Quinming. We’re here for you.”
‘No... what happened after their argument?’ He thinks and wants to ask, but his mouth is not working.
As the luxurious trappings fade in and out of focus, Quinming's consciousness ebbs and flows. He catches glimpses of intricate embroidery on cushions, delicate porcelain vases, and elegant scrolls adorning the walls. The weight of his exhaustion pulls him back under.
He closes his eyes, succumbing to a deep, restful sleep, the first he has had since waking in this borrowed body.
When he next stirs, grating chirps shatter the morning quiet. ‘Damn magpies are loud.’
Forcing his heavy eyelids open, he blinks against the dim light. His vision blurs. The room swaying as he tries to focus, its foreignness confusing his groggy mind.
‘Where the hell am I now?’
Quinming tries to lift his hand, but it is like moving through a swamp. His limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. Sharp, throbbing pain radiates through his body, making him wince and groan.
‘Welcome back to reality, old fool. You really did a number this time.’
His head lolls to the side, and he takes a few shallow breaths. Each one brings him a little more into the present and a little more pain. Pain that drags him fully awake, cutting through the fog of sleep and bringing with it a grim clarity of his situation.
He laughs, wincing at the pain. ‘Failed again,’ he thinks, staring at the ceiling. ‘Her office is still a fortress. They must think I enjoy getting beaten up. Let them. I'll figure it out eventually.’
Quinming spots Lan, curled up uncomfortably in a chair by his bed, her head resting on the mattress edge. He frowns. ‘This kid... always worrying about me.’
“Lan,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. She stirs slightly but does not wake. Quinming reaches out, gently touching her arm. “Go get some proper rest, kid. I'll be fine.”
Lan mumbles something in her sleep, her grip tightening on the edge of the bed. Quinming sighs, a soft spot in his heart revealing itself. “Stubborn as ever,” he mutters, a faint smile on his lips. ‘Just like me.’
The door swings open. Xiuying enters quietly, gently closing it behind her. Dressed in a simple cotton robe, her usually impeccable hair falls loosely around her shoulders, slightly disheveled. She is getting ready to sleep.
Quinming averts his eyes, embarrassed by intimate scenes that flicker through his mind. He shifts uncomfortably, focusing on the wall patterns. ‘Next time, I'll just gouge my eyes out.’
She approaches the bed, noticing he is awake. “How are you feeling, Quin-Quin?”
He tries to sound nonchalant. “I’m fine. How long was I out?”
“Seven days,” Xiuying replies, relief in her voice. “Everyone kept checking on you.”
Processing the information, he thinks, ‘Seven days? Damn, I’m losing my touch. I didn't think I'd be down that long.’
Xiuying brushes Lan's hair from her face. “There's some broth porridge for you,” she says softly. “I'll move Lan to our room and return with some.”
Quinming gives a noncommittal grunt, avoiding eye contact. He watches them leave. A strange sense of loss hits him as the room becomes quieter.
Left alone, Quinming tries to sit up, wincing at the pain and weakness in his body. He gives up, falling back against the pillows. 'Master always used to nag at me, said to treat my body like a temple. I never listened,' he muses, frustration bubbling up.
Xiuying returns with a bowl of food and a bowl of medicine. She helps him sit up, supporting him as he leans against the pillows.
"Here, drink this," she says, holding the bowl of medicine to his lips.
Quinming begrudgingly drinks the medicine, wincing at its bitter taste. "Arg, so bitter," he groans, sticking his tongue out in disgust.
Xiuying smiles softly. “Bitter means it's good for you, Quin-Quin."
‘Yeah, well, I know you can live off raw centipede guts, but you don’t see me chugging those down.’ He grimaces as he swallows. ‘Why am I recalling that shitty cave now?’
"Rest well.” Her voice is gentle and caring. “We’ll talk more in the morning."
As Quinming eats, he feels annoyance and reluctant gratitude. ‘Their concern for the brothel brat is amazing.’ The thought gnaws at him. If they knew who he really was and the secrets he carried, would they still care for him?
"If they knew, they'd either run for the hills or try to exorcise me with this bitter medicine. It’d be one hell of a show," he mutters, dark humor offering a small comfort.
Quinming pushes the bowl away, the warmth it once provided now replaced by a bitter realization.
"Can't let myself get attached," he mutters, a dark smirk forming. "They care for the kid I’m squatting in, not the ghost.”
Despite his words, he finds it hard to push them away. He always did have a weak spot for genuinely nice people.
He leans back, staring at the ceiling. "Guess the afterlife isn't all it's cracked up to be.”
As he sorts through his thoughts, fuzzy recollections of fevered dreams surface—fleeting images, battles, familiar faces, and confusion. ‘There’s something important hidden there, a nagging feeling I cannot ignore.’
“Damn it,” he growls, running a hand through his hair. “What is it? What am I missing?”
‘Always something just out of my reach.’
His thoughts circle back to the elder brother who tricked him long ago. ‘You may have won today, but mark my words, Quinming. One day, someone will put you in your place.’
The words echo, intertwining with his current predicament. ‘Locked in this unfamiliar body, stripped of power and dignity, I am indeed put in my place.’
“Always had to be the clever one, didn’t you?” Quinming mutters bitterly. ‘Even now, you’re still messing with my head.’
He sneers, recalling the events after Brother Zhi saved him. ‘That traitor got what he deserved. Excommunicated, tendons slashed, dantian destroyed. First in the sect’s history. Promised to always piss in his direction, didn’t I?’
What happened to him afterward, Quinming does not know or care. ‘Good riddance,’ he thinks, barely remembering his name. The elder brother left with his younger sibling, who chose to care for him despite his downfall.
‘Who was his brother again,’ he wonders, recalling how both siblings used to look at him with very similar eyes. Jealous eyes. Sticky and twisted. But after that cave incident Quinming had trouble remembering names of people, and faces were even worse. He usually had to go by mannerisms and general feel of their energy or unique features. Only if he is near them, close to them, cares about them, could he even start to see others' faces. ‘Until then they are just noise. Extra bodies around me.’
"Enough dwelling on the past. I need to figure out a new plan. One that doesn’t involve more pain. Come on, Quinming, there’s got to be a way out.” Quinming lies back, sighing. 'Think, Quinming. Remember those escape attempts? What a mess.' Charging for the gate, scaling walls, sneaking through gates—each one ending in searing pain, like his soul being ripped out. 'Not my finest hour.’
One particularly vivid memory surfaces. He recalls sneaking through the brothel's kitchen, the smell of fresh bread and roasting meat filling the air. He had almost reached the back door when the head chef caught him. “You there! What do you think you’re doing?” the chef bellowed, brandishing a cleaver. Quinming ducked and weaved, narrowly avoiding the blows.
Just as he thought he was in the clear, the searing pain hit him, forcing him to collapse onto the kitchen floor, gasping for breath as the world went dark.
‘At least it was just a pan.’
Switching tactics after that, he methodically tested his boundaries. ‘Measured steps, varying distances. Whatever this force is, it’s not static. Moves within the brothel, like a shadow in the moonlight.’
Tracing the rough texture of the mark on his wrist, Quinming frowns. “This mark... it’s tied to something here, something that moves. What could it be?” He takes a deep breath, the scent of incense and medicinal herbs filling his lungs. 'Focus, Quinming. The key is in the details.'
As he recalls his punishment in Madam Li’s office, he methodically pictures the room: the heavy wooden desk cluttered with scrolls and gold-etched trinkets, the cabinet full of exotic wines and liquors, her vanity overflowing with perfumes and powders, each bottle more ornate than the last. The way the lanterns gleamed off her collection of jade figurines, and the stuffed parrot in a gilded cage, adding an air of opulence and vanity.
Tap, tap, tap, her fingers on the desk. ‘Growing impatient.’ She strode towards the wall where the whip hung. An orange-red object glinted with her movements. The ornate ring on her finger flashed in his mind.
‘There’s a fuzzy idea. But testing it? Ha!’
Seeking a distraction, Quinming sits up and adopts a meditation posture. Sharp pain jolts through his limbs, making him wince. He breathes deeply. ‘Herbal remedies. Fresh linens. Old wood furnishings.’ Instinctively, he falls into the old familiar breathing pattern.
He does not need to imagine it. He can feel it. ‘Little motes of light floating all around me. They exist everywhere. Pass through everything. My breathing method attracts them like moths to a flame.’ Vibrant teal motes flickering all around him, swirling like the gentle rustling of leaves, oh-so tantalizingly close. And yet just out of reach.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
In this state, he can feel it. ‘An unseen film coats my body. Thick. Entangling like vines, repelling any foreign energy not of itself. It blocks these teal motes and denies me the ability to absorb them. Let alone dare shape them into a dantian.’
"Damn it," he growls, opening his eyes and glaring at the empty room. Silence. Oppressive and unyielding.
"Information," he says, the word hanging in the air like a challenge. "Someone here knows more."
He thinks of the faces around him: the courtesans, the servants, even the patrons. ‘All seem oblivious, but someone must understand what is really going on.’
"Madam Li," he whispers, the name sending a chill down his spine. ‘She is the key. But confronting her directly? Not a chance. I need a way to gather information without raising suspicion. A way other than one that leaves me bed-ridden.’
"Guess I need a new angle." He runs a hand through his hair. ‘There's got to be another way.’
With a deep breath, Quinming corrects his posture, contemplating a risky maneuver. "This might be the most reckless thing I’ve done," he muses dryly. ‘Given my history, that says a lot.’
Lifeforce. The vital energy that sustains his existence. It's a limited supply, one that, once exhausted, is a nightmare to replenish. Unless you're dripping with wealth and influence. Unfortunately, Quinming is neither. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to just buy my way out of this mess?’
He's kept away from this kind of desperate gamble for precisely these reasons. ‘Desperation is a lousy motivator but an excellent catalyst.’
But now? He's backed into a corner. He's walked the safe, methodical paths, each leading him nowhere. He's hurled himself into punishment, testing every boundary imposed on him. Hell, he even risked slipping into a coma to identify the object that ensnares him. And for what? Even with the object pinpointed, it's beyond his reach. Madam Li would obliterate him before he got close. Options are dwindling, and desperation is becoming his closest companion.
‘Nothing like a little mortal peril to spice up your day.’
"Alright, let's give this a shot," he mutters, closing his eyes. "Maybe two wrongs can make a right.” ‘Or maybe I’ll just end up twice as dead.’
Quinming starts with the breathing technique passed down to him by a wandering monk. The first wrong. The monk had been... deviant. An excommunicated fool searching for a way to regain the dantian that had been shattered. Instead of treading the known, safe paths along the body, he excited conflicting paths, tangled and criss-crossed. And yet, amazingly the old monk had accomplished something everyone thought impossible. He triggered his old qi pathways and the shattered remains of his core. While limited in power, could use a fraction of his old strength.
He did that very same technique now. Slow and rhythmic. Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. Then it switches. Random and chaotic. Inhale, inhale, exhale, hold. Inhale, hold, inhale, exhale.
‘Just like playing with fire, except the fire’s inside me. Great.’
Sweat drips down the back of his neck. His body screams. His nerves feel like they are on fire. But he does not stop. Instead, he throws oil onto it. Wrong number two. While doing this bizarre breathing he looks deep within instead of out. Inside near where his heart is at lays a sea of untapped energy. Lifeforce.
‘Here goes nothing.’
Carefully, very-very delicately, he draws out a microscopic drop. It is hard. Lifeforce likes to cling together. Sort of like sticky tar.
His body trembles. Heart aching. Nerves jolting. Saying it hurts would only be misleading. ‘Might actually die this time,’ he thinks grimly. But he dives right on in, head-long into death. ‘If this works, I’m a genius. If it doesn’t, well... no one’s going to miss me anyway.’
With a single tiny drop, he drags it onto the chaotic pathway opened by his breathing. The rustling wind and the ember alight inside him, burning brilliantly, creating a sensation that is both new and strangely familiar. He throws this new energy at his core, where his dantain will form and waits and sees.
For a moment, it works. The energy flows, like a river gathering momentum. He feels a surge of strength, a hint of the power he once commanded as the energy tries to take root in the tangled dark vines. ‘Almost there,’ he thinks, hope blossoming. But then, as if hitting an invisible dam, the energy disperses, slipping through his grasp.
He gasps. The chaotic rhythm lost. The pathway fades. He collapses as pain rakes his body. It hurts. Maybe even worse than when he dragged out that drop of lifeforce. He bites his tongue to stay conscious.
A shaking, pathetic mess. And yet, he smiles. He cannot help but smile. For a brief moment, he felt the barrier around him shift, as if responding to his efforts. The results may have been a failure, but it is the first time he has felt any change. So he smiles. Stupidly. Happily.
"Haaa, haaa, haaa," he pants. "Almost... had it."
‘Just need a bit more lifeforce.’
If only he could repeat it, but this time with a slightly larger tiny drop of lifeforce.
‘Keep trying and I'll either die or I’ll get it. And then, Madam Li won’t know what hit her.’
Before he can contemplate further there is a knock at his door. Quinming's eyes snap open, irritation flashing across his face.
"Perfect," he says with a breathless chuckle. "Just when I'm about to achieve enlightenment, the universe has to interrupt.”
His body cries out as he moves. He is moving too fast, but seconds matter here.
“Hold on,” he raises his voice as he reaches for the bowl of broth porridge. With a quick swish he clears away the metallic taste from biting his tongue. It stings.
Quicker, he puts the bowl back and wipes his sweaty brow with his blanket. It is a pointless gesture. But he prefers to look ill and not close to death. He slaps his cheeks, hoping to get some color.
“Ow. Ow. Ow,” he whispers, “Idiot. That was too hard.” ‘Sometimes I wonder about my own intelligence.’ Wincing, he lays back down, covering himself with the blanket to assume the role of sick patient. ‘Hope I look pitiful enough to avoid suspicion.’
“Yeah?” He clears his throat. “Uh, come in.”
Rong opens the door. Her simple, but beautiful dress whispers against the floor. Her sharp eyes lock onto his, revealing deep concern and determination that tells him this is not a casual visit. She gives him a solid curious look. Apparently she heard the slap.
Quinming shifts, wincing at the pain that shoots through his body, but he forces a smirk. "Couldn't have picked a better time, could you?”
"Quin-Quin," she says, her voice soft but insistent. "We need to talk.”
‘Great, what now?’ Quinming sighs, his frustration giving way to resignation as he waves her in. "Alright, Rong. Come in. What's on your mind?"
Rong carefully closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed beside him and holds out her hand, a subtle fragrance of lavender fails to hide the scent of ink and parchment. Quinming gives her a puzzled look as he stares at her hand.
‘What’s she up to now?’
"Your wrist. Can I see it?"
He offers her his wrist, still puzzled but a bit excited. "What are you up to, Rong? You planning to tell my fortune?"
She takes his wrist gently, tracing the mark with her fingers. It tickles. "How did you get this, Quinming? Can you recall?"
He hesitates, the truth slipping from his lips reluctantly. "I can't remember." He resists the urge to pull his wrist back, not wanting to seem defensive.
Bow furrowing, she continues to touch the mark. "I did some digging through old family connections while you were unconscious. This mark... it's not a binding seal. At least, not one known to this world."
Quinming’s eyes narrow. "What do you mean, 'not known to this world'? Are you saying it’s something out of a legend?”
Breaking up the dialogue can help to create a more natural flow and allow for pauses that can add emphasis to certain points. Here is a revised version:
She sighs, pulling out a piece of paper and charcoal, drawing the mark carefully. "My family were scholars, not martial artists. But there are stories—information about artifacts." She glances up, meeting his eyes. "After the Demon Wars and the death of Cheonma, strange phenomena started to appear. It's like the fabric of space was weakened, and small, broken worlds began to surface."
She pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing, "Within these worlds, there are ruins. Ruins that scholars believe belonged to lost Immortal cultivator civilizations.”
His smirk twists. Quinming’s interest piques, sarcasm masking genuine curiosity. "Artifacts? You mean those fairy tales about dragon scales, phoenix feathers, and ageless Immortals?”
Rong nods. "Mysterious and dangerous tools that only existed in myths until now. Some artifacts have caused gruesome deaths, strange accidents... terrifying things."
Eyes widening slightly, he asks, "Gruesome deaths, you say? Well, that's a comforting thought. What else can you tell me?" Of course, it couldn’t be something simple.’
She continues tracing the mark on the paper, her expression serious. Her hand moves with an elegant ease, the charcoal dusting her fingers as she works. The lines she draws are precise, capturing the mark perfectly.
"One artifact was found in the ruins of a lost city," she says, her voice steady. "A simple-looking mirror. But anyone who gazed into it saw their darkest fears, their deepest regrets. Many went mad, some took their own lives."
She pauses, glancing at the paper to ensure every detail is correct before continuing. "Another was a jade amulet that could amplify one's qi tenfold, but it burned through the user’s lifeforce at an alarming rate. They would die within days, their bodies turned to ash."
Quinming frowns, the weight of her words sinking in. "So, you think this mark might be from one of those artifacts?" He shakes his head slightly, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. ‘Why do I always get mixed up in the weird stuff?’
She nods, her fingers still delicately tracing the mark on the paper. "It's possible. We don't know much about them..." She lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes filled with concern. "You need to be careful, Quinming. Don't try to mess with it until I can find out more information."
She sets the charcoal down and examines her work, her hands now smudged with fine black dust. Brushing off her fingers, she leans back slightly, studying the mark with a thoughtful expression. "This isn't something to take lightly," she murmurs, almost to herself, before meeting Quinming's eyes again.
He leans back, smirking wryly. "Perfect. An ancient cursed trinket. Just what I was missing.”
She folds it carefully and stashes it in the pocket in her sleeve. "I'll keep this safe and look into it further. It might help us understand what we're dealing with."
Quinming watches her. "Uh, thanks, Rong. I, uh, appreciate it." He clears his throat, feeling awkward. Why am I so bad at this gratitude thing?’
She gives him a small, reassuring smile. "Just promise me you won't do anything reckless.”
"No promises, but I'll try." ‘Playing it safe has never been my style.’
As she stands to leave, Quinming feels a surprising sense of gratitude. He looks away, his voice gruff. "Rong... really. Thanks."
She nods, her expression softening. "Take care, Quinming. We'll figure this out together."
After she leaves, Quinming leans back, realizing how close he came to a catastrophic mistake.
"Guess I owe her one," he mutters, feeling bashful.
"So, those mythical Immortals weren’t just bedtime stories," he muses. "Guess I better start believing in fairy tales. Who knew they'd come back to bite me in the ass? But...” he stares up blankly at the ceiling. “What the hell do I do now?”
‘Why do I always get myself into these messes?’
Quinming leans back, feeling the weight of Rong's words and the strange sensation of gratitude. As he begins to contemplate his next steps, the door swings open without a knock, and Minling strides in. Her vibrant red dress glimmers in the dim light, each step exuding confidence and arrogance.
‘Of course, no knock,’ Quinming thinks, eyeing her approach with mild amusement. ‘Some people just can’t resist a flashy entrance.’
“Don't look so surprised, Quin-Quin,” she says, setting a tray down with a flourish. “I brought you some broth porridge. Because apparently, you can't survive without my help.” She glances at the bowl he had set aside from Xiuying, her expression faltering for a split second before she recovers. “But I see someone already beat me to it.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise. More food is always welcome, especially when delivered with such enthusiasm.”
She rolls her eyes, shoving the bowl into his hands. “Don’t think this means I care. It’s just that I don’t want you dying on my watch.”
Quinming chuckles, wincing slightly as he adjusts his position. “Of course, wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation.”
Minling huffs, her face flushing slightly as she crosses her arms. “Exactly. Besides, you owe me after stepping in to save me from that drunk. I mean, really, who do you think you are, my ‘Hero in Gleaming Robes’?”
‘If only you knew the truth, you'd laugh until you cried,’ he muses as he takes a spoonful of the porridge under her ever watchful eyes. “Ah, just a naive young fool who thought he could be a hero. Now I'm paying the price for it. What can I say? Got more courage than sense.”
She scoffs, though a hint of gratitude flickers in her eyes. “Well, thank you, I guess. Not that I needed your help.”
‘Sure, keep telling yourself that.’ Quinming nods, a wry smile on his face. “Oh, I’m sure you had it all under control.”
Minling starts pacing, her frustration evident in every step. “It’s just... Madam Li has been so paranoid lately. She’s been meeting with these shady characters. I don’t know what she’s planning, but it can’t be good.”
‘Paranoid Madam Li? Now that’s interesting.’ Quinming’s interest piques, though he keeps his expression neutral as he plays with the porridge instead of eating it. “Shady characters, you say? Do you have any specifics on what they might be plotting?”
She pauses, biting her lip. “Not really. But I heard something about ‘cleaning up loose ends.’ It made my skin crawl.”
“Cleaning up loose ends...” Quinming muses, a chill running down his spine. ‘That sounds ominous,’ he thinks before adding, “Sounds like she’s planning something big.”
Minling nods, finally sitting down beside him. “Just be careful, okay? I don’t need more drama.”
‘Who knew the star of the brothel had a soft spot?’ He keeps his face blank, but inside he is cramping from holding in his laughter.
Quinming, done pretending to eat, sets the bowl aside. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the tip, Minling. Maybe you’re not so bad after all.”
She stands up abruptly, smoothing out her dress. “Whatever. Just don’t think this means we’re friends.” With that, she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.
As the room settles into silence, Quinming’s mind races. ‘Cleaning up loose ends? What the hell is Madam Li up to now?’ He knows he needs to dig deeper, but for now, rest is all he can manage.
Another knock in his door, and he wonders. ‘Of course, because why would I get a moment’s peace?’