That night, after the tide of destiny turned and the world's luck pooled around me, I lay awake in the quiet darkness of our home, the dense spirit energy pulsing gently in my dantian. It was as if every breath, every beat of my heart, echoed with new strength—a power I'd never even dreamed was possible. Yet I knew instinctively: such gifts, left unshared, would wither in solitude. They must be understood, passed down, multiplied. So before sleep claimed me, I organized my thoughts, reviewing my entire journey of cultivation with a clarity only my transcendent understanding could provide.
I replayed every sensation: the first faint tingling, the stubborn blockages, the relentless patience it took to clear each meridian, and finally, the euphoric surge as the twelfth and last channel opened, transforming the gentle stream of energy into a vast, swirling pool. I remembered how, through sustained meditation, the spirit energy condensed, changing not only my strength but the very nature of my being.
It was more than a memory. It was a blueprint—a sequence of steps, insights, warnings, and possibilities. I catalogued every sign of progress and every danger, noting how the mind and breath must remain calm, how the flow must never be forced, how even the smallest shift in perception could be the difference between stagnation and breakthrough. I even wondered if there were dangers I had simply been lucky enough to avoid, or whether the world itself, in its newfound favor, had smoothed the way for me.
By dawn, my resolve was set. I would share this knowledge, but not carelessly. The power I'd uncovered was as dangerous as it was miraculous, and the world outside our home, though blessed by luck for now, was still wild and uncertain. The best way forward was together—with my family, the ones I trusted above all others.
The morning light spilled across our courtyard as I called everyone together. My father, Ye Shentong, strong and shrewd as ever, was first to appear. My mother, Ye Qiumei, soon followed, wiping flour from her hands, her gaze curious but cautious. My brothers, Ye Xuan and Ye Rong, stood side by side, broad-shouldered and alert, ever ready to face danger but uncertain what to make of my urgency.
I explained everything, sparing no detail. I told them how, for the past year, I'd quietly trained, meditating each day and night, guiding an invisible energy through the paths inside my body. I described the slow awakening of my meridians, the struggle to clear each blockage, the sudden, overwhelming rush of spirit power when the final channel opened.
At first, they were skeptical. Xuan laughed, thinking I was exaggerating. Rong shook his head, his expression half-concerned, half-amused. Even Father's confidence seemed shaken, while Mother's brow furrowed in doubt.
"I know it sounds impossible," I said gently, "but let me show you."
I walked to the edge of the yard and picked up a heavy wooden beam—a fallen limb from last winter's storm, one even Xuan and Rong had struggled to move together. I lifted it easily with one hand, feeling the spirit energy support every muscle, every joint. Then, with a single motion, I threw it the length of the courtyard. The beam struck the far fence, snapping it in two with a crack that echoed through the village.
Silence fell. My family stared in open-mouthed disbelief.
I dropped into a crouch and leapt over the garden wall, clearing it by a wide margin, landing softly as a cat. I returned to the center, grinning. "I am not the same as before. This is not a trick of strength, or some clever use of leverage. This is what the spirit energy can do when all meridians are opened."
My brothers looked at one another, now pale with awe. Father's eyes narrowed—not with suspicion, but with a shrewd calculation. Mother's hands trembled, but I could see hope beginning to kindle beneath her worry.
"I want to share this with you," I said quietly. "But I must warn you: it is not easy. It takes patience, discipline, and trust. If you follow my method, if you listen and don't force the process, you will feel it too."
I began with my brothers. Xuan and Rong, though skeptical, were never ones to back down from a challenge. I taught them to sit in meditation, to regulate their breath and clear their minds. I showed them how to feel for the first tingling of spirit energy, like a faint warmth in their bellies, and how to guide it gently along the channels I'd mapped out.
To help them, I reached deep into my dantian, gathering a strand of the dense spirit energy I'd stored. I pressed my palm to Xuan's back first, letting the energy flow from my body to his. He shivered, surprised, as the force entered his core, filling him with vitality. I repeated the process with Rong, then instructed them both to sit quietly and sense the new energy within.
It was not immediate. Their first attempts were awkward; their breathing unsteady, their minds restless. But after several tries, they each found the current—Xuan's first, strong and steady, then Rong's, flickering but persistent. I guided them through the circulation, correcting their posture, helping them visualize the energy's flow from head to toe and back again.
After an hour, both brothers opened their eyes, sweat beading on their foreheads. I saw the awe, and perhaps a hint of fear, in their gazes.
"I feel… different," Xuan whispered, flexing his hands.
"I could run forever," Rong added, eyes wide.
"It is only the beginning," I promised. "As you continue, the energy will grow, your bodies will change, and—if you are patient—the world itself will seem brighter and lighter."
My father watched closely, understanding dawning. "Can anyone do this?" he asked.
"With guidance, yes," I said. "But it is safest to begin with help. Let me share my energy with you and Mother, so you can feel it for yourselves before you try to draw from the air."
He nodded, solemn and resolute. My mother was more hesitant, but trusted me, sitting beside Father as I repeated the process. This time, I took even greater care, ensuring that the transfer was gentle, that their bodies did not reject or overwhelm the new force.
Within minutes, both parents felt the first stirrings of spirit energy. Mother wept, quietly, as her aches faded and her heart felt lighter than it had in years. Father rose and stretched, grinning, testing his newfound strength.
That night, we sat around the fire, each of us changed. For the first time, I saw a vision of our family not as mere villagers, but as the foundation of something greater—a clan of cultivators, protectors, and teachers.
It was Father who voiced what we were all thinking. "This power is a gift," he said, "but also a burden. If word spreads too quickly, others may covet what we have. There will be envy, fear, perhaps even violence. We must become strong enough to defend ourselves before sharing this knowledge with the world."
Xuan nodded, determination hardening his features. Rong clenched his fists. Mother, tears dried, smiled bravely. I agreed wholeheartedly. "We will train together," I promised, "until each of us is strong enough to protect the others. Then, and only then, will we share what we have learned with the village."
Thus began half a year of quiet cultivation—a time of transformation none of us would ever forget.
Day after day, our lives took on a new rhythm. We rose before dawn, gathering in the courtyard to meditate, circulate spirit energy, and practice the exercises I'd learned and adapted from my past life. At first, progress was slow. My brothers, so strong in body, struggled to quiet their minds; my parents, patient and wise, moved more swiftly along the path, perhaps guided by their years of discipline and care.
Each evening, I refined my teaching. Every breakthrough was noted, every setback analyzed. I encouraged my family to share their sensations, their doubts, their hopes. Slowly, their confidence grew. Small aches and old wounds faded. My brothers found themselves hunting longer, lifting more, healing faster from injuries. My father's business thrived; his mind, clearer than ever, saw opportunities before others did. My mother found joy in her garden, moving with a lightness that made her seem years younger.
But as weeks turned to months, I made a crucial discovery—one that would change the path of cultivation not just for us, but for all humanity.
It happened on a cool morning near the end of the sixth month. We were sitting in meditation, the rising sun painting golden bands across the yard, when Xuan suddenly let out a gasp. I watched in awe as his spirit energy surged, his dantian swelling with new force. The signs were unmistakable: he had crossed the threshold, evolved in the same way I had.
But when I checked his meridians, I was astonished. He had not opened all twelve. In fact, only eight channels were fully clear, the rest partially open or still blocked.
I tested Rong, who had also made great progress. The same pattern emerged. My parents, too, showed dramatic improvement despite only opening a handful of major meridians. The conclusion was obvious: the method I'd used—patiently clearing each and every meridian—was not the only way.
With my transcendent understanding, I reviewed every step of our journey, comparing experiences and sensations. The answer was clear. The body possessed dozens—perhaps hundreds—of minor meridians, many so small they were barely perceptible. If a person simply focused on circulating spirit energy regularly, these channels would gradually open on their own, without the need for painstaking attention.
It was only the largest, most stubborn blockages that needed active guidance. Most people could, with time and effort, reach the threshold of evolution without clearing every last channel. What mattered most was persistence, patience, and a willingness to trust the body's natural wisdom.
I spent days refining this realization, adapting my method into a simple, safe practice that anyone in the village could follow: regular meditation, slow circulation of energy, and gentle awareness of any resistance or pain. If blockages arose, they could be worked through over time, not forced or feared.
I taught my family the new method, and watched as their progress accelerated. I saw hope bloom in their eyes—a sense of freedom and possibility that filled our home with joy.
By the end of the sixth month, I knew the time had come. My brothers and father were strong enough to defend us; even Mother radiated a quiet confidence. Our family was ready.
I called a meeting in the village square, inviting our closest friends and allies. I explained, without exaggeration, what we had discovered and how anyone could begin. There was fear, at first—uncertainty and doubt, the natural resistance of people who had never dreamed such things were possible. But my family stood with me, living proof of the path's promise.
Slowly, curiosity won out over fear. The first students sat beside me in the grass, nervous but eager. I guided them as I had guided my brothers, sharing energy from my dantian when necessary, encouraging patience and perseverance.
A new chapter began—not just for our family, but for the entire village. The seeds of cultivation had been planted. The path was open, no longer reserved for a single "child of destiny," but for all who dared to walk it.