The wagon creaked softly as it rolled through the dim, stone-hewn corridors of the dungeon, its wheels clattering over uneven slabs and ancient carvings worn by centuries. The air carried a faint shimmer of latent mana, drifting like dust motes caught in the lantern light, but none of it eased Xulian’s exhaustion.

  Nestled among crates of bandages, ration packs, and bundled cloth, Ling Xulian sat cross-legged on a folded tarp, wrapped in both blankets and frustration. Her spiritual energy was dangerously low—so low she felt hollow, like her dantian was an echoing chamber rather than the core of power.

  They still had a full day and a half before reaching the strategic convergence point deeper in the dungeon. Not nearly enough time to meditate on a fraction of what she would possibly need.

  And yet meditation requires calm.

  And calm was the one thing she absolutely did not have.

  Instead, her face was buried in her hands. Because every time she tried to breathe… she remembered what she’d done.

  Not broken a sword or damaged one out of clumsiness or her amateur handling of it.

  No. Worse.

  She had done the most cliché thing in cultivation novels. She resonated with them.

  To all of them.

  Every sword in camp—steel, enchanted, ceremonial, mass-produced, heirloom—had vibrated, hummed, or rattled in response to her unconscious words.

  And Cilian’s personal sword, with its distinctive black-and-silver edge, had outright ripped itself from his hip and flown straight into her hands like an overeager puppy.

  In front of the entire army.

  The memory alone made her turn red enough to ignite.

  Lilian sat opposite her, calm as moonlight, examining the Dungeon Core fragments with delicate white-mana threads. She raised an eyebrow every time Xulian groaned into her palms, monitoring her condition since she was still healing.

  Next to the wagon walked Luim, steady and serene, a living mountain of a man in temple robes.

  Xulian tried again to meditate.

  Immediately failed.

  She dropped backward onto a sack of provisions with a strangled noise.

  “Why… why did it have to be all the swords…?”

  Lilian didn’t look up.

  “That was indeed something. They simply… reacted. But I won’t worry too much, miss Xulian.”

  “Cilian’s sword launched itself at my face!” Xulian squeaked.

  “But it landed in your hand,” Lilian corrected gently.

  “NOT HELPING!”

  And then came the worst part.

  Cilian, usually colder than polished steel, had walked up to her afterward with a surprisingly soft expression—confused, but not angry.

  He had taken the sword back, checked it, then… handed it to her again.

  Too casually. Almost gently.

  As if it were the most natural thing in the world that his signature weapon had abandoned him for someone else.

  “Seems it likes you,” he had said, tone strangely mild for a commander known to make veterans cry.

  “You should keep it for now.”

  Everyone else in the camp had stared like the sky had fallen.

  The strict commander? The perfectionist? The man who lectured a squad for breathing too loudly?

  Just handing his personal sword to a girl who accidentally charmed it?

  Xulian had nearly fainted.

  And her mind spiraled instantly.

  No. Nope. Absolutely not.

  This is harem-protagonist behavior.

  First, the weapon chooses me, then the commander gets soft, then—

  NO. Not falling for cliché flags. Not me.

  She groaned before slumping her shoulders in frustration.

  Lilian sighed.

  “You’re muttering again.”

  “I’m not muttering!” Xulian hissed, trembling like a traumatized rabbit.

  “…I’m simply dying.”

  Meditation was impossible.

  She needed help.

  She needed guidance.

  She needed someone who wasn’t giving her strange looks ever since she unintentionally charmed an entire camp’s armory.

  Her eyes drifted to Luim walking beside the wagon.

  Yes. Luim.

  The one person whose expression never changed, no matter how bizarre she behaved.

  She leaned forward weakly.

  “…Luim? C-could you come closer? I need to ask you something important. About… meditation.”

  The man adjusted his stride instantly, his calm presence settling like warm earth beside the wagon.

  “What troubles you, Lady Xulian?”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be Lady Ling? Never mind that for now.”

  She exhaled a breath she felt she’d been holding for hours.

  “How do Qi users like you generally accumulate spiritual energy? And… meditation. Do you have any formal methods of meditation?”

  Lilian murmured, “This is going to be a long talk.”

  And the wagon rolled on to the rhythm of marching boots.

  A shadow passed along the side of the wagon, steady and rhythmic. Luim walked beside it, matching its pace with the relaxed ease of someone who could outdistance horses if he felt like it.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “You’re trying too hard,” he said without looking in. His calm voice carried easily in the enclosed corridor.

  Xulian cracked one eye open. Great. He noticed.

  Luim continued, “So far, every Qi user I’ve ever met cultivates differently. Some sit in silence, some focus on their heartbeat, some visualize rivers or starlight. Meditation is the most efficient method we know… but even that varies.”

  He shifted his gaze to her, glancing at her briefly. “A few discovered that controlling their breathing during meditation increases the Qi they gather over time. But it isn’t universal. For some, that very breathing method becomes a hindrance.”

  Xulian frowned. “So there’s no standard technique?”

  “None,” Luim confirmed. “And the truth is… nobody really knows how we absorb Qi in the first place. Mages have mana veins—physical structures that help circulate mana. But Qi users?” He shrugged. “We have nothing like that inside us. No clear channels. No confirmed organs. Just… intuition and practice.”

  That answer made Xulian straighten slightly, curiosity pushing aside her embarrassment.

  “So… what about Spirit Roots?”

  Luim blinked. Actually blinked. Twice.

  “Spirit… what?”

  His genuine confusion was unmistakable.

  Xulian stared at him, baffled. “You’ve never heard of spirit roots?”

  Luim shook his head slowly, brows drawing together. “No. Is that… supposed to be a Qi term?”

  Xulian hesitated, glancing toward the wagon flap to make sure no one else was listening. Then she leaned slightly closer—mostly because she was still wrapped like a burrito in blankets.

  “Well… where I come from, it’s said that people accumulate Qi through their Spirit Roots,” she explained carefully. “They’re… um… innate spiritual channels, kind of like attributes that determine how much Qi a person can absorb. Someone without spirit roots can’t cultivate at all. Zero absorption. Ever.”

  Luim stopped walking. Not slowed. Not faltered. Stopped dead in his tracks.

  His brows rose slowly, eyes narrowing—not in distrust, but in the deep focus of someone whose entire worldview had just received a silent earthquake.

  “So you’re telling me,” he said after catching up again, voice low and even, “that every Qi user must have these ‘roots’ inside them?”

  Xulian nodded. “Exactly. If someone can cultivate, then the roots are there. Even if they’re weak or unawakened.”

  Luim’s frown deepened. “But… no one in this world has ever detected them.”

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Xulian said, a hint of excitement creeping in. “It just means you don’t have a method to sense them yet.”

  Luim slowly resumed walking, though his expression carried the weight of a new mystery settling onto his shoulders.

  “And the meditation methods…? What role would they play then?”

  Xulian inhaled sharply as a sudden thought struck her.

  “Wait… the meditation techniques—what if they’re not substituting anything?”

  She shook her head. “What if they’re the key?”

  Luim turned toward her again, gaze sharpening.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Xulian said slowly, “everyone who uses Qi must already have spirit roots. The meditation methods might actually be… guiding those roots, helping them function correctly. Like… training wheels.”

  The idea hit her so hard she forgot she was supposed to be embarrassed.

  Her eyes unfocused as she began mentally rifling through every cultivation novel trope she’d ever stored in her brain.

  Spirit roots… dantian… foundation establishment…

  “…Oh.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Luim blinked. “What?”

  “The flow of Qi,” she murmured. “I’ve been thinking like a mage—just pulling energy in. But cultivators don’t do that. They draw Qi into the dantian, refine it, and then circulate it through meridians.”

  Luim looked utterly lost. “Meridians?”

  “Channels in the body,” Xulian said quickly. “Invisible ones. They carry Qi through your limbs and organs. The cycle builds strength, heals injury, increases accumulation speed—it’s everything.”

  She swallowed as her own realization clicked into place with frightening clarity.

  “And I… don’t have a circulation method.”

  Her hands tightened around her blanket.

  “That’s why I nearly broke myself fighting Cilian. I was forcing Qi straight into my body with no guidance, no refinery, no cycle. The backlash wasn’t from weakness—it was from ignorance.”

  Luim stared at her with a slow, dawning awe.

  “…If this is true,” he said quietly, “it would change the entire way we perceive Qi accumulation."

  Xulian nodded, her heart pounding, not from anxiety, but from discovery.

  “It really would.”

  Xulian’s mind sharpened, the realization about circulation methods and meridians igniting a spark of clarity. If Qi users needed a method to properly circulate their energy during meditation… then she needed one too.

  Most cultivators had a single spirit root. She had two—Heavenly Wood and Heavenly Water. Any ordinary method wouldn’t suffice. She needed a method that could harmonize both roots, guiding their energies together without conflict.

  Closing her eyes, she pictured her three spiritual cores: one in her dantian, one close to her heart, and one in her forehead. She traced the paths her Qi naturally flowed in her body, following the invisible currents like streams of a flowing river.

  To her astonishment, faint points of light appeared all over her body, like distant stars scattered across a night sky. Meridians… these must be the meridians, she realized. Each point marked a channel for energy, waiting to be properly activated.

  Her thoughts flicked to the fight with Cilian. She remembered the way her sword had carved arcs through the air, leaving behind flowing petals. The motion had been elegant, fluid, and precise—a natural pattern of energy.

  If she could replicate this pattern internally, she could guide her Qi along her meridians.

  She allowed her spiritual energy to move freely. Her two spirit roots responded instinctively, weaving the energies together. The flow synchronized, threading through her dantian, heart, and forehead then spread like roots of a tree to her meridians. Her body responded immediately—muscles tightening, tendons reinforcing, senses sharpening. The circulation didn’t just increase Qi accumulation; it strengthened her body as the energy moved.

  Her mind settled on a name, and the system seemed to acknowledge it almost automatically:

  [New Skill: Ninefold Verdant Lotus Circulation Sutra]

  Increases Qi accumulation by 100% per spirit root. Strengthens the body stat by +1 for every 900 circulations and +10 per level. Improves the body’s efficiency in using energy through proper circulation of Qi along the meridians.

  Xulian opened her eyes, a faint glow of energy pulsing around her, feeling her dual spirit roots harmonized and her body fully aligned. For the first time since entering the dungeon, she felt ready—the flow of her Qi smooth, responsive, and immensely powerful. It was like starting the engine of a car, even without going into meditation, she felt like Qi was pooling slowly into her dantian.

  She flexed her hands, letting the circulation method pulse through her body. Her dual spirit roots danced in harmony, energy streaming along her meridians with fluid precision.

  This is it… this should be enough to break through, she thought, anticipation coiling in her chest. She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on the energy in her dantian, willing it to push past the barriers that had held her back for so long.

  A sharp, sardonic chime echoed in her mind.

  [Breakthrough Attempt Failed]

  Celestial alignment is insufficient. Your spiritual cores are operational, circulation method detected, but cosmic variables remain unfavorable. Retry after additional circulations. Or don’t. Data inconclusive.

  Xulian’s eyes snapped open, a mix of disbelief and exasperation flashing across her face.

  Seriously? Cosmic variables? Her dual spirit roots harmonized. Her circulation method is complete. Everything was ready. And yet… some cosmic whim dictated her progress.

  A low, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. Of course… nothing in cultivation was ever simple. Always a divine test, always a heavenly mood swing.

  Despite the setback, Xulian felt the strength in her body, the clarity of her Qi, and the potential of her method. The circulation was perfect—this failure was not a reflection of her ability, merely the heavens being capricious.

  Fine, she thought, determination sparking in her green eyes. I’ll wait. But when I do break through, it will be on my terms—not some fickle celestial joke.

  The wagon creaked as it rolled forward, carrying her closer to the strategic location, her mind alive with possibilities, her body thrumming with power restrained only by the whims of the heavens—and her unyielding resolve. She sank back into her meditation using her Ninefold Verdant Lotus Circulation Sutra.