Chapter Five: The Art of Consuming Qi

Qi Absorption Technique? Even the name of this cultivation method sounds hopelessly rustic...

Wrapped tightly in his quilt, He Chang'an shivered as he flipped open the first page of the little booklet, and immediately caught sight of the three archaic characters: Qi Absorption Technique.

Thankfully, the script was mostly familiar.

It was a breathing and energy-gathering method in nine layers, not too different from the iron-body qigong he’d practiced in his previous life. The process was, as ever, to guide the vital energy into the body, circulating it slowly through the eight extraordinary meridians, a practice known as moving the Small and Great Circulations.

But in this method, what was absorbed was the primordial energy of heaven and earth, and the essence of sun and moon; the power cultivated was magical force—not like that "iron-body qigong," which toughened the skin and bones outwardly, and honed a so-called true qi within.

Primordial energy, sun and moon essence, the spiritual sea in the dantian, the strength of divine sense...

Could it be that, in this Great Tang, immortality truly can be achieved?

He Chang'an was finally roused in spirit.

To be honest, after the events of the past day and night, he’d been feeling rather despondent. Ghosts, monsters, all these "superstitious" things—he truly had no way of dealing with them...

Those insubstantial, formless beings couldn’t be fought physically; the little gadgets and tricks that worked on beasts or people were all but useless. It was a bit like a fly landing on a pile of dung, or blasting a mosquito to death against the wall with a cannon...

A sense of utter powerlessness.

He carefully ran through the introductory practice of the Qi Absorption Technique, and, struggling to sit upright, began to cultivate immediately.

His very survival was at stake; there was no time to lose.

He arranged his body in a cross-legged seated posture, palms open, all five hearts facing upward, and began to guide the energy into his body, circulating it through the Small and Great Circulations.

In the dim pre-dawn light of the little thatched hut, minute particles of radiant light began to flow, drawn by a mysterious force, streaming one after another into He Chang'an’s body...

...

Two hours later, He Chang'an opened his eyes, a trace of confusion and astonishment on his face, took up the booklet, and studied it earnestly.

Could this method be a sham?

Is cultivation really this simple?

In just these two short hours, He Chang'an had already managed to draw energy into his body, move it through the Circulations, and opened up his own dantian spiritual sea, advancing to the first layer of the Qi Absorption Technique.

Granted, his spiritual sea was rather small...

The previously drained primordial yang energy was not so easily restored, but his internal organs, bones, and flesh, nourished now by heaven and earth’s energy, saw marked improvement—the extreme weakness of his body finally began to abate.

It seemed that those people "kept" by ghosts were all practicing this method, like harvesting leeks—every full moon, the ghost would come to take a sip.

So it seemed.

With his life no longer in immediate danger, He Chang'an finally let out a breath of relief, climbed out of bed, quickly washed up, locked the wooden door, and set off toward the yamen.

It was nearly midday; the sun was shining bright and warm, a comfort to the body. By the time He Chang'an walked from home to the bun shop, a fine sheen of sweat had appeared on his brow.

He noticed that the state of the townspeople was even worse than yesterday. Many middle-aged men and women walked hunched, eyes dull, movements sluggish—like a horde of zombies.

Quite a few elderly folks had disappeared...

After picking up six meat buns at the shop, He Chang'an turned to leave, but then changed his mind.

He sat himself at a battered old elm table and boldly ordered a bowl of tofu pudding from the middle-aged shopkeeper. He began to eat and drink slowly.

The shopkeeper was a man in his forties, likely surnamed Zhang, though what did it matter? In a place like this Tang, the names of common folk were worth less than a fart—especially once they were past forty and their looks had faded...

Watching Zhang the shopkeeper, trembling as if calamity were about to befall him, He Chang'an couldn’t help but sigh inwardly.

After cultivating the Qi Absorption Technique, some of the memories of "Swift-Handed He Chang'an" had come together, becoming coherent. In this Great Tang, as a constable of the county yamen, his official uniform was worth barely a few coins. What really terrified a man like Zhang was He Chang'an’s youth.

The younger you were, the more valuable you were.

The higher your status as well.

Once over forty, your primordial yang was nearly depleted. If not for some simple, low-level breathing technique keeping you alive, and the occasional visit from a ghost to take a sip, you’d likely already be dead.

He Chang'an quietly opened his "spirit eye," and glanced at Zhang the shopkeeper.

He started in surprise.

At the center of Zhang’s brow, there was a black mark the size of a coin, imprinted with a strange smiling face, fresh blood dripping from the corners of its mouth...

His spirit eye would last for about ten breaths.

He quickly turned to look at Zhang’s wife, busy steaming buns. On her brow was a green mark, depicting a plump mouse—curiously, the mouse bore two wings...

He Chang'an’s heart leapt.

The country girl who had "kept" him had kissed his brow as well. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now...

Cold sweat trickled down his back anew.

Was everyone "kept"? And why were the marks on men’s and women’s brows of different kinds?

Men kept by ghosts, women kept by monsters?

He Chang'an looked at a few people thirty or forty paces away; sure enough, each bore a mark—men with black marks depicting ghostly figures, women with green marks depicting monsters. Each person’s mark was different...

It all felt a bit like "this flower is already claimed."

And he’d thought he’d arrived in a prosperous era—hell, an entire human town had been split between ghosts and monsters...

...

When his spirit eye faded a few breaths later, He Chang'an wiped away the tears at the corner of his eyes as if by accident, finished his buns in silence, patted the dust from his rear, and left.

At least now he understood the situation; at least he had a direction to struggle toward.

He vaguely recalled that there were said to be a few "martial arts manuals" in the yamen’s archives. He’d have to find a way to get his hands on them.

And then, at White Cloud Monastery in the north of town, Lingyin Temple in the west, Unending Academy in the south—there should be inheritances of some kind, at the very least...

Just as he reached the yamen gate, he nearly collided with someone.

Looking up, it was Swift-Handed Old Hu. As soon as he saw He Chang'an, his face lit up. "Chang'an, I was just looking for you!"

He Chang'an frowned slightly. "What’s the matter?"

"Good news," Old Hu replied with a grin.

Good news, these days?

"Is there a new girl at Emerald Red House?" He Chang'an asked carelessly.

"No, it’s real good news," Old Hu glanced around, lowered his voice: "Zhang the Tiger is dead. The county officer sent for you—wants you in the rear hall for a briefing..."

"Zhang the chief is dead?" He Chang'an started. "Wasn’t he fine just yesterday?"

"Yes, he died last night," Old Hu said in a low voice, scurrying to keep up, a sly grin on his face. "Died of exhaustion, heh heh..."

The chief’s dead, and that’s good news?

But seeing the ingratiating smile on Old Hu’s simple face, He Chang'an suddenly understood: He must be thinking, with the chief dead, He Chang'an might be promoted to squad leader...

He Chang'an felt a sudden tightness in his chest.

What kind of damned Tang is this? That everyone is "kept" by monsters and ghosts is one thing—the power of a single human is so feeble compared to those beings that resistance is pointless.

But between people, the moment...

Forget it. Life is hard for everyone. If there must be competition, so be it. It’s just that...

Yes, it all feels a bit off.