The journey back to the desolate stronghold nestled deep within the Northern Peaks was a blur of discomfort for the boy, whose past was as nameless as his future. He lay on the cold, hard floor of the carriage, every inch of his tiny body a map of pain. Yoo Sanghwa, observing him from his cushioned seat, his earlier shock now replaced by a chillingly pragmatic assessment, had ordered the cult's best physician, Elder Ma, to attend to the child. Elder Ma was an old man with wise, weary eyes and fingers stained perpetually with medicinal herbs, his face etched with a lifetime of healing and despair.
Dozens of thin, silver acupuncture needles protruded from the boy's skin, shimmering faintly in the dim light filtering through the carriage's small, grimy window. Each needle was a tiny, sharp sentinel, attempting to mend the broken pathways of his qi and soothe the battered remnants of his physical form. The boy remained still, his breathing shallow, his face a mask of passive endurance. Inside, however, his mind was a whirlwind of calculations and observations. He felt the dull ache of the needles, the faint thrum of internal energy attempting to circulate through damaged meridians. He registered the presence of Yoo Sanghwa, a figure radiating suppressed fury and dangerous power, and the doctor, a man whose exhaustion was almost palpable.
"Patriarch," Elder Ma sighed, his voice raspy with an exhaustion that mirrored his patient's frailty. He carefully adjusted a needle near the boy's collarbone, his brow furrowed with concern. "His condition is… dire. The years of malnutrition, the repeated beatings, the constant exposure to the elements… his meridians are severely constricted, almost choked off. His dantian is barely capable of holding a wisp of qi, a flickering candle in a hurricane. Even with his astonishing talent, that display in the alley… it will be a miracle if he ever reaches full health, let alone cultivates to any significant degree."
Yoo Sanghwa's gaze sharpened, piercing the shadows within the carriage. "A miracle, you say? I do not deal in miracles, Elder Ma. I deal in results." His voice was low, yet it vibrated with an implicit threat.
"Indeed," Elder Ma countered, unflustered by the Patriarch's harshness, a testament to his long service and deep understanding of the human (and martial) condition. "The damage is profound, woven deep into his very constitution, a tapestry of suffering. He has been denied proper nourishment and development since birth. We can try to slowly expand his meridians, reinforce his bones and muscles with precious elixirs, but it will be a long, arduous process, and success is far from guaranteed." The doctor paused, his eyes falling on the boy, who lay still, seemingly unconscious, yet subtly, meticulously observant. "Unless… unless he can truly embrace the essence of nature itself."
Yoo Sanghwa shifted, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps curiosity, perhaps skepticism – in his eyes. "Speak plainly, Old Man. What obscure Daoist nonsense are you spouting now? We are a Demonic Sect, not a bunch of ascetic hermits."
Elder Ma chuckled softly, a dry, rustling sound that carried a hint of ancient wisdom. "It is no nonsense, Patriarch. It is the fundamental truth that underpins all martial arts, all cultivation, all existence. We speak of qi, of inner energy, of cultivation techniques, of blood arts… but what is qi, truly? What is demonic energy? What is orthodox energy? They are merely refined manifestations of the Nature's Energy that permeates all things. The plants draw it from the earth, the clouds from the sky, the mountains from the deep bedrock, the very demons from the corruption of the land. All things, living or inanimate, are merely conduits, vessels for this vast, unending flow."
He gestured vaguely around the cramped carriage, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the confines of the vehicle. "Our breathing techniques, our meditations, our intricate movements – they are all attempts to align ourselves with this flow, to draw in the minuscule amounts our limited bodies can process. But the truth is simpler, yet infinitely more profound: all flow returns to one. The intricate techniques, the countless martial arts of the nine great sects, the brutal arts of the demonic cults, the diverse energies of different factions… they are but ripples in a grand ocean. And the ocean itself is Nature's Energy."
Yoo Sanghwa grunted, a sound of reluctant acknowledgment, though he listened intently. "So, you speak of becoming one with the world. A philosophical pursuit, not a martial one that wins battles."
"On the contrary," Elder Ma countered, his voice gaining a quiet fervor, a rare passion kindling in his aged eyes. "The truth of the world is being one with nature. To truly master a realm, one must first be a part of it. When a martial artist reaches the peak of their art, their movements become as fluid as a river, as immovable as a mountain, as swift as the wind. This is not just imitation; it is a subconscious resonance with the very essence of nature. Nature's energy is the core of all other energy. All qi, all internal force, ultimately originates from it. If one could truly harness it, not merely as a small stream entering a jar, but as an unending river flowing through one's very being, healing, strengthening, purifying…"
The boy, lying still and unresponsive, absorbed every single word. His small mind, honed by a lifetime of forced vigilance and a desperate need for survival, began to piece together the doctor's seemingly abstract concepts. Breathing… inefficient. The body was a vessel, yes. His abusers had used his body as a vessel for their cruelty, their rage. But the doctor spoke of a different kind of vessel, a conduit for something boundless. If he could expel unwanted energy through sweat, as the doctor had mentioned in an earlier murmur about toxins, why couldn't he absorb through the myriad pores that covered his skin? Why limit himself to just the breath, a tiny, restrictive opening? Why not the entire surface, the entire being?
An electric current, pure and vibrant, seemed to surge through his broken form. His consciousness expanded, not outward in a conventional sense, but inward, then outward again, feeling the subtle currents, the omnipresent hum of energy all around him – not just the stale air in the carriage, but the very essence of the wood, the metal, the life force of the horses pulling them. The energy was everywhere. And he, too, was part of it. He was it.
His small body trembled, a tremor that rippled through his very bones. He didn't need to consciously breathe to take it in. He just needed to be. To open himself, every pore, every cell, every molecule, every scarred inch of skin, to the boundless wellspring of the world. His abused, frail body was not a weakness, but a canvas, a crucible for a transformative understanding.
Suddenly, a faint, ethereal glow emanated from the boy, a soft, pulsating light that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the world outside. The silver acupuncture needles, as if repelled by an unseen, benevolent force, shimmered, then vibrated violently. With a series of tiny ping sounds, each like a miniature bell, they shot outwards, embedding themselves harmlessly into the carriage's sturdy wooden walls, each a minuscule projectile now devoid of purpose.
Yoo Sanghwa and Elder Ma gasped, their eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and profound awe.
The boy's form lifted, hovering a few inches above the floor, his tattered clothes fluttering as if in a gentle breeze that only he could feel. The oppressive pallor of his skin, a testament to years of starvation and abuse, receded like a receding tide, replaced by a radiant, almost translucent fairness that seemed to glow from within. His tangled, matted hair, once dull and lifeless, darkened, becoming a deep, lustrous black, falling in soft waves around a face that was no longer gaunt and bruised, but utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. His features, sharpened by suffering, were now imbued with a delicate, ethereal quality that hinted at something transcendent.
He slowly descended, landing softly, almost weightlessly, on the carriage floor. He took a deep, silent breath, and with it, he felt the world breathe with him. Every pore on his body became a tiny aperture, drawing in the essence of nature without effort. He could feel it, flowing not just into his dantian, but through his very being, saturating every cell, purifying every damaged meridian, converting every last shred of his "internal energy" – the qi that had been so battered and damaged – into a seamless, perfectly integrated extension of the nature energy around him. It was as if his very essence was dissolving into the world.
To the doctor and Yoo Sanghwa, staring in stunned silence, the boy seemed to… fade. Not physically, but in terms of energy signature. It was as if his presence had become so perfectly attuned to the ambient energy of nature, so completely merged with it, that a powerful energy perceiver, even one of the Grand Orthodox Alliance's masters, would deem him not there at all, his individual energy signature utterly indistinguishable from the background hum of the world. He was a shadow, perfectly camouflaged by the very essence of life.
He opened his eyes. They were no longer vacant, no longer dull. They were deep pools of intelligent awareness, reflecting a wisdom far beyond his years. And in their depths, he could now perceive the subtle, intricate dance of energies all around him – the vibrant, untamed currents of nature, the distinct, often chaotic, flows within Yoo Sanghwa and Elder Ma, each a complex symphony of power and intent. He saw the faint, bruised qi in the doctor's tired meridians, and the surging, suppressed power, a dark, primal force, within Yoo Sanghwa, a current of fury and ambition.
He managed a small, hesitant smile, a perfectly crafted mask of innocent relief, the barest hint of vulnerability. "I… I feel much better," he whispered, his voice still weak but imbued with a new, subtle resonance, like a clear bell chiming after years of rust.
His dantian, though still small and undeveloped, was now a perfect vortex, constantly pulling in and refining the boundless nature energy. He understood now. His ability to use the energy was limited by his dantian's capacity, which he would still need to grow through rigorous cultivation. But his ability to absorb it was constant, unending. He could absorb it sleeping, walking, eating, breathing, doing anything. This was not a breathing technique. This was… everything. This was absolute absorption.
Heavenly Qi Art, a thought, clear and powerful, bloomed in his newly enlightened mind. This will be its name.