The clock on the wall read 11:23 AM. Almost three hours in the library.

  Time to go home.

  Daniel pushed through the front doors into midday sun. The fog had burned off completely now, leaving the sky that particular California blue. Powell Street was thick with foot traffic.

  Tourists headed towards the cable car turnaround. They were wearing shorts with sunglasses. Probably going to the beach.

  Conversations swirled around him. Office workers on an early lunch, a man selling knockoff watches from a folding table. A cable car bell squealed somewhere nearby and came to a rest next to the bus stop.

  He ignored it all and kept going.

  On the walk back, his mind kept circling the instructions. Sit, breathe, focus. Visualize a speck of light below your ribs. Ten to fifteen minutes. The simplicity felt almost suspicious. If it was that easy, why wasn't everyone doing it?

  But then, how many people actually tried? How many just argued about it online, demanded proof, mocked anyone who claimed success, and wrote the whole thing off as fake?

  ShaolinOrBust. SkepticWarrior. DeathFist99. They all wanted evidence before attempting anything. Wanted someone else to prove it first so they didn't have to risk looking stupid.

  Daniel wasn't sure what he was. Skeptic or seeker. Maybe both.

  At the corner of the street, two old men sat outside a tea shop, playing chess on a fold-out board. One reached for a piece, before pulling back.

  Daniel wondered if either of them had ever heard of qi. If they'd dismiss it as superstition or nod like it was obvious. Yeah, magical powers are real. Don't you know that?

  Chinatown had layers like that. The tourist version with the dragon gate and the souvenir shops selling jade pendants and paper fans.

  The working version with the groceries and the restaurants and the dim sum carts rattling down the sidewalk.

  And underneath both, something older. Temples tucked into second floors. Craftsmen who'd learned from their fathers who'd learned from their fathers. Traditions that had crossed an ocean and survived.

  If any of it was real, and that was still a big if, maybe it lived somewhere in that hidden layer. Or maybe it was just another story people told themselves.

  He turned onto his block. The trashcan outside his apartment building had migrated again, blocking half the stairs. He squeezed past it, the metal warm from sitting in the sun, and climbed.

  The third floor felt higher than usual. His legs were stiff from sitting too long at the library. The stairwell had bits of grime sticking out the steps, and he avoided them sidestepping them carefully. By the time he reached his door, he was slightly winded.

  He opened the door and put his things down.

  One, two, three…

  Daniel pulled the printouts from his back pocket, unfolded them, smoothed the creases against his thigh. He laid RisingPhoenix72's post on the milk crate where he could read it.

  Now, let's see if any of this works.

  He prepared himself, making sure he read the instructions a few more times, then he sat on the futon.

  Crossed his legs. Straightened his spine. Tried to find a position that felt stable.

  The futon wasn't ideal. Traditional practitioners sat on a pútuán. Cattail cushions woven from reeds. Flat and round, about the size of a dinner plate and a half, maybe fourteen to eighteen inches across. Two fingers thick.

  The shape itself carried meaning. The circle represented heaven complete, without beginning or end, the Dao in its perfect form. The flatness represented earth. Stable, grounded, receptive. When a practitioner sat on one, they became the third element. Human, the bridge connecting heaven above and earth below. 天地人. Tiān dì rén. Heaven, earth, man. Unified in a single moment of stillness.

  The weave was tight cattail or straw, sun-bleached to a pale gold, with darker threads spiraling toward the center like light condensing into matter. The golden color represented yang energy. The warmth of sunlight touching the earth, bringing life to what lay dormant below. The darker threads winding inward were yin. The depths where seeds took root before rising.

  Natural materials mattered. The ancients believed synthetic things carried dead qi. Energy that had been cut off from its source. But cattail grew in water and earth, woven by hand, dried by sun. It still held the memory of growth. Of living cycles. Sitting on it connected you to dìqì, earth qi, the foundation all martial arts was built on.

  The cushion was supposed to be firm, not soft. Your hips lifted just enough for your spine to settle into alignment without effort, creating what the texts called wěnzùo. Stable sitting. The firmness prevented sinking. Kept the body's energy structure intact.

  Too soft and you collapsed inward. Too hard and you tensed against it. The cattail cushion was the middle way.

  "Return to the root is called stillness," the Dao De Jing said. The pútuán was that return. Shift your weight, and it gave a quiet papery rustle. A reminder that you were sitting on something real. Something that had been alive once. Something that remembered being rooted in mud and reaching toward light.

  Daniel looked at the printout, then back at his futon.

  The theory was beautiful. The reality was much less than ideal.

  At least the cotton in his futon was natural. Grown in a field somewhere, even if it had been blended with synthetic fibers and compressed into cheap padding. Not hand-woven grass, but not entirely dead either.

  The real problem was the futon was too soft. His hips sank into the worn padding, pulling his spine into a curve, breaking the Heaven and Earth unity.

  He stood. Grabbed the edge of the futon. Folded it in half.

  Sat on the doubled edge where the layers compressed against each other. Firmer now. His hips lifted enough for his spine to straighten. He had to hold the posture rather than letting the cushion do the work, but it was manageable.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Not traditional. Not even good.

  But good enough to start.

  Close your eyes. Breathe naturally for one minute to settle your mind and body.

  Daniel closed his eyes.

  Breathed in through his nose. Out through his mouth. The movement felt awkward the moment he paid attention to it. Too self-conscious. It was like manually driving your legs forward.

  He counted to sixty. Tried to settle. His mind kept drifting. To the forum posts, to the skeptics, to Henry's terrible handwriting, to the cracked linoleum in the library bathroom, to nothing at all.

  Place your attention in your lower abdomen.

  Somewhere below his ribs in the center of his body was supposed to be his dantian. He aimed his awareness there.

  Inhale deeply. Visualize a small point of light forming. No larger than a bead.

  Daniel pictured it. A small glowing bead floating in the darkness of his body, like a candle flame seen from far away. The image felt forced. Artificial. A picture he was drawing rather than something he was perceiving.

  Hold for three. Exhale slowly.

  He held. Exhaled.

  Nothing.

  Again. His nose itched. He tried to ignore it. The itch spread, crawled across his face, became unbearable. He scratched it, broke concentration, and started over.

  Again. His left leg started to fall asleep, pins and needles spreading through his calf. He shifted his weight, trying to restore circulation without opening his eyes.

  Again. His mind wandered to what he'd eat for dinner, and he had to drag it back.

  Seven minutes in, maybe eight. He'd lost track. Daniel opened his eyes.

  Nothing. Just normal breathing and an imaginary warmth that had stayed imaginary.

  First attempts. Likely nothing. This is normal.

  Right. Normal. Except SilentMountain had felt something immediately. Why was he different? It was supposed to be real, real warmth, real and reproducible. Meanwhile Daniel couldn't make it through one session without his mind wandering to dinner plans and itchy noses.

  Maybe it was all bullshit after all. Maybe SilentMountain really was a sock puppet. Maybe RisingPhoenix72 was just another internet liar, better at sounding calm than the others.

  He stood. His legs ached from the awkward position. Walked to the window, stretching his calves.

  Outside, the fire escape clung to the building's face like an iron skeleton. Below, dumpsters lined the alley, lids open, one of them overflowing with black garbage bags.

  The fire escape went all the way down. Three floors to the alley, then out to the street. He could leave right now. Go to the skatepark, find Henry, tell him the forum was a waste of time. Move on with his life.

  He could go back to the shop tomorrow. Stock shelves. Watch the clock. Come home and watch another movie. The same cycle, forever. Or he could sit back down and actually try.

  Try it for one week before dismissing it.

  Daniel sighed. His breath fogged the glass slightly.

  One attempt wasn't a week. And one half-hearted attempt wasn't even really trying. He'd barely given it a chance before deciding it didn't work. That wasn't skepticism. That was quitting.

  He'd quit high school. Quit on the idea of college. Quit on a dozen half-started things he couldn't even remember anymore. One more thing to add to the list, or one thing he actually finished.

  He walked back to the futon. Sat down again. The folded edge compressed under his weight, firmer now from use. His knees ached faintly. He ignored it. Adjusted his hands on his knees. Found stillness.

  Do not force the sensations. Let go of expectations. The practice is gentle, patient.

  Gentle. Patient.

  He settled into position. Back straight, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees. Closed his eyes.

  This time, he didn't try to visualize anything. Didn't count breaths or chase sensations. He just sat. Let his breathing find its own rhythm. Let his thoughts drift past without grabbing onto them.

  No pressure. No goal. Just sitting.

  Place your attention in your lower abdomen.

  Not forcing. Not thinking. Just... noticing.

  Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

  His mind wandered. He noticed it and brought his attention back. No judgment. Just returning.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  The feeling became easier. His breathing deepened on its own, settling into something slower and more natural. The sounds of the building faded. Mrs. Liu's television. The pipes. The traffic below. All of it receding like a tide going out.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  There.

  Faint. So, faint he almost missed it. It was warm. A physical sensation as if a small match lit up in his body. A small bead of light.

  Daniel kept breathing. Didn't change anything. Didn't chase it.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  The light grew. Small, contained, but definitely there. Like a coal buried in ash, finally catching.

  His heart started hammering. It was working. Actually working.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Building now. Pressure behind it, like the light had weight. The sensation was getting denser, heavier, hotter. His breath hitched. He dragged his focus back. Keep breathing. Don't think. Just breathe.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  The pressure kept rising. His whole body felt full, like every muscle had been pumped past capacity. The light wasn't spreading anymore. It was compressing. Condensing into something almost solid in his body.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Higher. Uncomfortable now. Not painful, but intense. Like a dam holding back water that wanted to move.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  He could feel it now. Vibrating. Humming. Pushing against the boundaries of whatever space contained it. Like something alive trying to find a way out.

  His jaw clenched. Sweat beaded at his temples. The futon creaked beneath him as his body tensed against the pressure.

  He couldn't hold it anymore.

  Something gave.

  The feeling of something breaking open. A gate swinging wide.

  Light flooded outward in a wave through his body. Down through his hips, up through his chest, branching like veins of heat, like rain finding parched earth. Then, without warning, something shifted. A soft realignment, gentle as a sigh. Every muscle in his body suddenly remembered how to relax.

  The energy rushed upward, filling his chest, his throat, his lungs.

  Daniel exhaled.

  The breath came easily. A subtle pressure in his throat. A vibration imperceptible to the world yet weighted with presence. His breath left him. Soft, barely more than a whisper. And crossed the room like something thrown.

  CRACK.

  The instant it touched the wall, the plaster split. Thin lines racing outward from a central point, fracturing like glass, like something had struck it moving too fast to see.

  Daniel's eyes snapped open.

  "Holy fuck."

  His voice sounded distant in his own ears. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. Dust drifted down from the crack, catching the afternoon light, settling on the floor in a thin line like ash.

  He crossed the room to the wall. The crack was real. He touched it, ran his finger along one of the fracture lines. The plaster crumbled slightly under his touch, leaving white powder on his fingertip. The crack spread about eight inches in each direction from the central point, thin lines radiating outward like a frozen splash.

  He wiped the plaster dust on his jeans. Left a white streak on the denim.

  He stepped back. Looked at the wall, then down at his hands, then back at the wall again. His hands looked the same as always. No glow, no visible change. But something was different now. He could feel it. A faint awareness humming beneath his skin.

  He had just cracked the wall. With his breath. With magical power.

  This wasn't in the instructions. RisingPhoenix72 had said subtle warmth. Gradual sensations. Gentle practice. Not this.

  His breathing was still deep, still effortless, but his heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The energy in his body had settled, smaller now, but he could feel it pulsing.

  Qi was real.

  And whatever Daniel had just done wasn't normal.

  But if this was just the first attempt. If this was what happened when someone barely knew what they were doing.

  What else was possible? What would happen after a week? A month? A year?

  The old movies flickered through his mind. Masters leaping across rooftops. Swords that flew through the air. Warriors who could kill with a touch, heal with a word, live for centuries.

  He'd always assumed those were exaggerations. Fantasy. Special effects and wire work. Stories to entertain children and sell movie tickets.

  But if qi was real. Actually, physically real. Then what else might be true?

  Daniel stood in front of the cracked wall, plaster dust on his fingertip, the afternoon light slanting through the window. The water stain on the ceiling looked the same as always. The VHS tapes sat in their box. Everything in the apartment was exactly as it had been an hour ago.

  Everything except him.

  He'd come here expecting to waste fifteen minutes and feel vaguely disappointed. Instead, he'd proven that everything he'd ever dreamed about might actually be possible.