The three held him far too tightly, the raucous laughter of his mother filled his ears, and his sister didn’t hesitate to wipe her face on his clean shirt. His father caressed his hair kindly.

  Hope and joy overwhelmed the boy as a gentle tear flowed down his cheek, and he let his family smother him, disappearing in the hug.

  That was a moment he would never forget.

  It took a while for them to calm down. Even then, when they sat down, Chang Xia tightly held one of her brother's fingers in her hand. Their warmth was echoed in the boy’s heart.

  “We will go to the main branch of my clan and get you whatever resources they have to offer.” Chang Jun looked at his wife. “Can you get us a carriage, dear? You know how far their terrains are.”

  “Of course. Dear, Hen-Hen, little Xia, start packing clothes for a few days while I go. They can offer us a place to sleep, right?”

  “I'm sure that when we bring the second Cultivator this clan has produced in a hundred years, they will.”

  Chang Jun and Chang Li kept making plans, their son meekly accepted them, as he filled his stomach to the point it hurt. Which wasn’t a lot of food.

  ***

  Later on, his mother came back with a four-wheeled cart that clearly had seen better days, but was big enough to carry all four of them and some extra baggage.

  Two horses, or maybe donkeys, pulled it. They were huge, but looked at his mother as if she were some kind of monster king to obey.

  Thinking of the times he had seen his mother angry, Chang Heng felt a connection to them. When he nodded at them, he was almost sure they did it back.

  Sitting down in the carriage, he decided to immerse himself in the mysterious world he now carried inside his body, or maybe soul- the topic was debatable, from what he had read. To do that, he sat as comfortably as he could in a moving carriage, and tried to forget the remaining sensations coming from his body- pleasantly full stomach, tired eyes, and the natural pain carried by his condition were all nothing but a distraction.

  Taking a deep breath, he detached himself from the physical world. His mind moved into a new space, one he had started feeling that night:

  The Dantian, a realm possessed only by Cultivators, and the house of their Core, their Qi, and more: it was situated at the centre of their bodies, slightly below the stomach, the size of a grain of sand, so it existed physically, but was only accessed via their minds, and motes of Qi the size of a pinky nail could enter it with ease.

  A paradox.

  Inside, his mind took the shape of his body in all its glorious paleness and emaciation. Around him, a small space of pure darkness, except for his little Core, sitting at the centre of the black sphere.

  It didn’t have a colour of its own, and occasionally let out the smallest Motes of Qi he had seen yet. Weak, few, and with no property, except being “his”. It took but the simplest act of will to move them around, spinning and jumping and dancing as he most pleased.

  They were little balls of potential: they could slowly nourish his body, or enhance it greatly for a moment; become complex, meaning-filled shapes and arrays that would make his progress smoother, or change their properties and become powerful Fighting Techniques- at least, they would be able to once he advanced to the Second Awakening Stage.

  Shaping the world, shaping his life, his very being, as time passed, they’d be able to do more and more.

  At the moment, he was at the lowest point of Cultivation, Qi Acclimation, and those roles would be taken by the physical energies- Stamina and Vitality.

  Typically, one would start by focusing on those so that they could do stuff like… fighting. Carrying heavy things. Breaking wood planks like paper, or something. And more stuff.

  He didn’t care much for that.

  It was much more aligned to his interests, instead, to take control of those little drops of energy and shape them, guide them to form symbols of logic, cause and effect: it started with a simple line, surrounded by increasingly complex symbols. He stopped upping the level of difficulty when his head started aching. Then, he added an empty circle at the beginning of the structure; it gleefully accepted the mote he sent through, which traveled through the line, and when it came out, it was different.

  He couldn’t see how, but he knew what the effects should be. He let it pass on to his body, and when it reached his skin, it sank in and dispersed. There was no noticeable effect, but if his methods and the theories of the fabled Chang Ling were right, it should have been a little harder. Very little. Basically the same.

  His mind left the Dantian, letting the structure lose form.

  He took the papers where he had written his personal Cultivation Technique. Out of the five pages, this was less than a third of the first.

  There was a long way to go, but he was eager.

  Shortcuts, in truth, were available. Sects were founded on the premise of having scrolls able to impart these kinds of Techniques, even if their power came from all the other resources they had.

  If I wanted to join one… in this city, the Black Fist is the best, I think. But there are quite a few I’ve never heard of that may actually be better. And outside… if I participated in the yearly tournament and reached the finals, I’d be accepted by the Scarlet Dawn Sect. One that dominates over a whole region.

  Not that I care much, anyway. Not when I can make these on my own, and it’s way more fun than I imagined!

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  His thinking was interrupted by Chang Xia sitting- no, tossing herself- on his lap, completing her fluid movement with a headbutt on his chin.

  “Ouch! Are you stupid or what?”

  “Or what. Also, don’t complain, you scared the…” She looked at their father and his judgmental eyes. “You made me very scared this morning, I worried I could stain my pure skin with your dirty blood.”

  “I absolutely get to complain, and you are constantly dirty already to begin with, you are not helping your “I’m not stupid” argument here.”

  “You should be nicer to a lady, like the guys in the stories you read. You kind of suck, you know that?”

  “Look yourself in a mirror without cracking it, and you’ll get to call yourself a lady. And they haven’t spent their childhood around someone as annoying as you to begin with. Now apologise, nah, kotow, and maybe this powerful, talented, and handsome Cultivator will spare your life!”

  ***

  Chang Jun watched fondly over them as his son smiled smugly. As always, he worried about his health, but the feeling was forgotten thanks to the theatrics his children liked to play to make fun of each other.

  .

  Looking at his daughter’s face- a flat expression with a little disgust thrown in- he couldn’t help but giggle at the situation, doing his best at keeping a proper expression.

  “I’m giving you another headbutt, just for how embarrassing you are.”

  “Not if I do it first!”

  Only then did Chang Jun tap his wife’s shoulder.

  Without even looking back, her left hand left the leash, grabbed Chang Xia’s face, and made her sit down in the carriage normally. He could always rely on her to make them slow down.

  “Chang Heng, Chang Xia, stop it. Your mother had a hard time convincing her boss to lend her the carriage; any damage will have to be paid by us. So, don’t fight, or you’ll have to do all the housework for a week. Am I clear?”

  He didn’t have the time to look at them angrily before the youngest started yapping at him.

  “But what if I smash Hen-Hen’s face on the floor? Isn’t he technically the one making… a…”

  He stared at her with a cold face until she stopped.

  “Sorry.”

  “Good. Now, both of you rest a bit. If we get to meet the patriarch, I want both of you to look good. Or at least presentable and not exhausted from the trip.”

  As he turned to stare at the streets of the city, he did all he could to hide his chuckling.

  I love kids’ improper humor.

  ***

  His sister was asking their mother to teach her how to ride a horse. His father was reading the newspaper- a new invention that he loved, for some reason.

  Chang Heng was busy ignoring the headache from training too much. The physical pains he was used to, but that hit somewhere deeper.

  Waiting, he watched the city from the open side of the cart.

  In the middle of the morning, most people were working; the only ones on the streets were carrying carts, selling or buying from stands, hurrying materials from one place to another, wandering merchants… all kinds of busy people.

  Out of them, it was impossible not to notice those working at the building sites: perfect skin and teeth, clean and rich clothes, straight backs, and confident looks, carrying weights that no human should be allowed to.

  They were Cultivators, wearing uniforms of some low-level sect. From its greys, it was likely the Sturdy Palace. But still Cultivators, blessed with powers that mortals could only dream of and envy.

  Powers he would soon gain, and hopefully surpass, even if his coughing fits didn't bode well.

  No matter what little sect they came from, they could also be feared. An old man slipped a pouch of gold into one of the workers’ pockets, looking down with a grim face.

  His father’s hand grasped Chang Heng’s arm. Without even noticing, he had stood up. The look he received from his father told everything that needed to be said. He sat back down, forcing himself to calm down. He felt a weight in his chest, forced to do nothing as he had been his entire life.

  It was hard to change.

  As they rode to the more central areas of the city, the architecture changed:

  The outskirts used more modern but poorer styles and techniques, made of wood, a few stories tall and with a simple design, with the streets made of simple dirt; in the better looking areas they were going through, the buildings were lower and made of white stone and marble, using columns to support balconies or a second story, and their streets were made of little square stones called “sampietrini”.

  His father often mused about owning a house in this style, or about the architect who first made use of it. It was a unique approach that he loved.

  Chang Heng heard him reprimand his mother for joking about stealing a sampietrino. Chang Xia liked the idea, just so that she could throw one at him whenever she wanted.

  The sweet perfume of a bakery filled his nose, and memories of past birthdays filled his mind.

  This was the best.

  ***

  Later in the evening, the temperatures lowered in favour of a pleasant chill. They stopped by a little shop to eat, vegetable soup and bread to go with it.

  While Chang Heng and his father took their time, the other two gulped theirs down, then ordered some more.

  Seeing him thoughtful, the mother asked her little Hen-Hen what worried him so much.

  “I don't know if I'm worried… just trying to figure out what to say to the patriarch when we get there.”

  “Hm? Why would you do that, Hen-Hen?”

  “What do you mean “why”? Why would I not think about that?”

  His father put down the spoon.

  “I'll be the one dealing with him, Son.”

  “What?! No way, what will be of my pride as a man, if I cower behind my father!”

  “This is not about pride, Son. You are still a child, a boy; we’ll have to deal with a man almost a century old.”

  “I’m sixteen, I’m not a child, and I’m not some sort of idiot. I’m an adult. And what would it change if you were the one to speak with him?”

  “Heng. Don’t talk like that to your father.” She added, stern. “You’re acting immature, taking our care for you as some sort of attack, which is only more proof that you shouldn’t be the one doing the speaking.”

  “This is our fault too, Son. We are the ones who should have helped you grow properly, taught you lessons that your sheltered life couldn’t. We don’t expect you to be more mature than we’ve allowed you be; that’s why I will be the one to talk. You, now, have time to learn and grow; I just want to help you have even more time.”

  The boy gritted his teeth.

  He felt insulted, his sensibility and pride hurt.

  More things were said, but the tones never got heated, and in the end, Chang Heng relented.

  He had no reason to doubt that they acted only out of love.