Xiao Zhan sat cross-legged on his bed, sipping bitter tea from a chipped mug, watching his roommates with quiet amusement.
“Jun, your snack hoard is a biohazard,” Li Heng said, pausing mid-kick to eye a suspicious stain on Wang Jun’s bedsheet. “I swear I saw a rat salute your Doritos shrine yesterday.”
Wang Jun tossed a chip at him. “Respect the hustle! My family’s got the busiest market stall in the West District. These snacks?” He gestured grandly at the pile. “Tribute from loyal customers. One time, Old Lady Chen traded me a whole roasted duck for a bag of spicy squid chips. True story.”
Zhao Qi adjusted his glasses, not looking up from his equations. “Statistically, 73% of your diet will give you type-2 diabetes by 25. Also, your ‘loyal customers’ are probably paying you to stop singing off-key at the stall.”
“Jealous!” Wang Jun snorted, crunching loudly. “At least I’m not the one who brought a whiteboard to college. Who even are you?”
“Someone who values intellectual rigor over… whatever this is,” Zhao Qi said, gesturing at Li Heng, who was now attempting a handstand against the wall.
Li Heng wobbled, then collapsed onto Xiao Zhan’s bed. “Zhan, back me up here. Your family’s gotta be loaded. You’ve got that… untouchable rich kid vibe. Like you’ve never washed a dish in your life.”
Xiao Zhan set down his tea. “My parents own a small pharmacy. We’re comfortable, not royalty.”
“Liar,” Zhao Qi muttered. “Your posture’s military-perfect. Either you’re aristocracy, or you’ve got a bamboo rod strapped to your spine.”
Xiao Zhan smirked. “Or I just like standing straight.”
Wang Jun squinted. “Nah, Zhao’s right. You’re hiding something. Bet you’re a runaway prince.”
“Or a spy!” Li Heng gasped. “Sent to infiltrate the university and steal the Iron Sage’s secrets!”
Xiao Zhan raised an eyebrow. “If I were a spy, I’d have better roommates.”
The group erupted into laughter, the sound warm and unguarded.
The university cafeteria was a symphony of clattering trays and overlapping chatter. Xiao Zhan’s roommates dragged him to a corner table, where Li Heng immediately began dissecting the crowd like a gossip-hungry detective.
“Ten o’clock—blonde girl in the red jacket. That’s Mei Ling, daughter of the Crimson Fist Sect leader. Rumor says she once knocked out a guy for stealing her parking spot.”
Wang Jun slurped noodles loudly. “I’d let her park on my face.”
Zhao Qi grimaced. “Please never speak again.”
Xiao Zhan’s gaze drifted to the lunch line, where Bai Xue stood beside Lu Feng, the protagonist. Her laughter rang clear as a bell as Lu Feng gestured animatedly, recounting some story. Xiao Zhan’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks.
Don’t engage. Stay invisible.
Li Heng followed his stare. “Ohhh, Bai Xue. Forget it, Zhan. Her dad’s on the city council. She’s basically martial royalty. And that guy with her? Lu Feng. Total underdog legend—raised in the slums, fought his way here. Girls love that tragic backstory stuff.”
Wang Jun snorted. “Zhan’s got a better jawline. That’s worth, like, three tragic backstories.”
“Not interested,” Xiao Zhan said, stabbing his noodles.
Li Heng leaned closer. “Are you gay? No judgment! My uncle runs a drag bar in the East District. I could hook you up—”
“I’m busy,” Xiao Zhan interrupted, fighting a smile.
“Busy doing what? You meditate more than my grandma at temple!”
“Practicing invisibility,” Xiao Zhan deadpanned.
After scraping their trays clean, the group wandered out of the cafeteria and into the sprawling campus courtyard. Students milled about, some clutching textbooks, others sparring with wooden practice swords under the shade of ancient oak trees.
“First lesson’s in Hall B, right?” Li Heng said, squinting at a campus map. “Professor Zhang’s class. Heard he’s a hardass.”
Wang Jun groaned. “Great. My brain’s still digesting those noodles.”
As they approached the lecture hall, Xiao Zhan’s gaze lingered on a stone monument at the courtyard’s center—a weathered statue of the Iron Sage, his sword raised toward the sky. The plaque beneath read: “Knowledge is the sharpest blade.”
Zhao Qi nudged him. “You coming, philosopher?”
Xiao Zhan nodded, following his roommates into the dimly lit classroom.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Professor Zhang’s classroom smelled of chalk dust and ambition. The wiry old man paced the front, his voice gravelly and commanding. A scar ran from his temple to his jawline—a relic of battles long past. Rumor claimed he’d once been a general in the northern wars before retiring to teach.
“Three centuries ago, the Iron Sage founded this university,” he began, tracing a finger over a yellowed map on the wall. “A warrior, a scholar, a madman—he believed knowledge and strength were two sides of the same blade. This semester, we’ll study his strategies in the Battle of Black Sands, analyze his treaties on Qi circulation, and—if you survive—reconstruct his lost techniques.”
He gestured to a faded chart on the wall depicting five tiers:
-
Apprentice – Tempering the body, mastering basic stances, awakening Qi sensitivity.
-
Fighter – Channeling Qi to enhance strength/speed, executing martial techniques.
-
Master – External Qi projection (striking objects without contact), advanced forms.
-
Grandmaster – Internal Qi refinement (healing, endurance), commanding respect.
-
Transcendent – Legendary. Rarely seen. Capable of reshaping battles.
“You start at the bottom,” Zhang growled. “Your first task? Awaken your Qi.”
He demonstrated a foundational stance: feet rooted, spine straight, palms cupped at the diaphragm. “This is the Iron Sage’s Basic Qi Circulation Form. Practice it daily. Feel the energy here—” he tapped his lower abdomen, “—your dantian. Nurture it like a spark. Fail, and you’ll never progress beyond swinging sticks in the courtyard.”
A student raised a trembling hand. “What if we can’t… feel the Qi?”
Zhang’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’ll join the theoretical track. Study history. Memorize techniques. Watch others achieve what you cannot.” The room fell silent. “But for those with grit,” he added, voice softening, “this—” he gestured to the chart, “—is your path to greatness.”
Professor Zhang’s gaze swept the room, lingering on anxious faces. “Military training begins next week. You’ll spar with seniors, run obstacle courses blindfolded, and meditate under ice-cold waterfalls. Pass, and you join the martial track. Fail?” He smirked. “Enjoy Martial Arts Theory—a class where you’ll dissect the Iron Sage’s poetry and debate the ethics of ancient battles. No practical training. No glory. Just… philosophy.”
Li Heng slumped in his seat. “Poetry? I’d rather eat a live scorpion.”
Wang Jun elbowed him. “Relax. How hard can waterfall meditating be?”
Xiao Zhan watched silently, fingers tracing the edge of his notebook. This world’s system is simpler than my past life’s cultivation… but no less brutal.
After class, the roommates spilled into the bustling courtyard. Students clustered around bulletin boards, dissecting training schedules, while seniors demonstrated flashy techniques to impress freshmen.
“Look at that!” Li Heng pointed to a shirtless upperclassman whose fists glowed faintly as he struck a wooden dummy. “Fighter-level Qi! He’s gotta be top ten in the rankings!”
Zhao Qi adjusted his glasses. “His form’s sloppy. He’s wasting energy on showmanship.”
Wang Jun fake-punched the air. “I’ll be glowing too! Just wait!”
Xiao Zhan said nothing, his mind replaying Zhang’s lesson. Awakening Qi here requires years of drills. But with my past life’s knowledge…
“Celebratory hotpot!” Wang Jun declared that evening, herding the group to a neon-lit restaurant crammed with students. The air smelled of chili oil and recklessness.
The roommates crammed into a sticky booth, arguing over spice levels until a sizzling pot of broth shut them up.
Then, trouble arrived.
A group of third-years swaggered in, their uniforms unbuttoned to show off gym-toned chests. Their leader, a hulking brute with a broken nose, slammed a fist on their table.
“Newbies. This is our spot. Scram.”
Li Heng froze mid-bite. “Uh-oh. Campus enforcers. They run fight clubs in the basement.”
Wang Jun stood, puffing up. “We were here first!”
The brute grinned. “Cute. Let’s teach you some respect.”
Xiao Zhan sighed.
As the thug reached for Wang Jun’s collar, Xiao Zhan’s chopstick flicked out, jabbing a pressure point on the man’s wrist.
“Agh!” The brute recoiled, clutching his arm. “What the hell?!”
Xiao Zhan rose calmly. “We’ll leave. No need for drama.”
The enforcer snarled. “You think you’re tough?!”
His friends lunged. Xiao Zhan sidestepped a wild punch, hooked a foot behind a knee, and sent one thug crashing into a noodle cart. Another swung a bottle; Xiao Zhan caught his wrist, twisted gently, and disarmed him with a clatter.
The restaurant fell silent.
“Enough,” Xiao Zhan said, voice cool.
The leader spat. “Freak.”
As the bullies retreated, the roommates stared at Xiao Zhan, awed.
“You’re a god,” Li Heng whispered.
“Just lucky,” Xiao Zhan said, tossing cash on the table. “Let’s go.”
Unnoticed, a cloaked figure in the corner lowered their hood, revealing sharp eyes and a faint smile.
Later, Xiao Zhan wandered the night markets, drawn to a weathered storefront: Blade & Scroll. The shop’s sign creaked in the wind, its windows fogged with age.
Inside, swords of every era lined the walls—jeweled rapiers, rusted sabers, a massive zweih?nder stained with ancient blood. The air hummed with latent energy.
An elderly shopkeeper dozed at the counter, his snores echoing. Xiao Zhan’s fingers brushed a plain jian on a dusty rack. Its hilt was worn smooth, its blade dull… yet his Qi stirred.
This blade…
He drew it slowly. The steel sang faintly, a whisper of battles long past.
“See something you like?”
Xiao Zhan turned. The shopkeeper watched him, eyes sharp beneath bushy brows.
“Just browsing,” Xiao Zhan said, sheathing the sword.
The old man chuckled. “That one’s picky. Only sings for those worth its edge.”
Xiao Zhan’s pulse quickened. “How much?”
“For you? A story. Come back when you’ve got one worth telling.”
Xiao Zhan met his gaze. “I’ll return.”
Back at the dorm, Xiao Zhan sat cross-legged beneath the window, moonlight silvering his face. His roommates snored behind him, blissfully unaware of the storm of energy swirling within him.
Closing his eyes, he slipped into the Void-Severing Meditation Technique—a method he’d mastered over centuries in the warrior world. The university’s “Basic Qi Circulation Form” was a crude candle compared to the inferno of his old cultivation arts.
Qi surged through his meridians, sharp and refined, pooling in his dantian like liquid starlight. In this world, “awakening Qi” was a milestone. For Xiao Zhan, it was a joke.
Half a step? He scoffed inwardly. I crossed that threshold lifetimes ago.
The Qi here was thin, diluted—a far cry from the torrential spiritual energy of his past. But even this trickle responded to his will like a trained hound. With a thought, he condensed it into a needle-sharp thread, testing its edge.
Enough to pierce stone. Enough to kill.
He glanced at his sleeping friends—Wang Jun drooling into his pillow, Li Heng muttering about “glowing fists,” Zhao Qi’s glasses askew.
They think awakening Qi is the beginning. For me, it’s a shackle.
His fingers brushed the air, Qi humming faintly. In the warrior world, this would’ve leveled buildings. Here, it barely stirred dust.
But that’s the game, he mused, dissolving the energy. Play the novice. Hide the blade.
He smiled faintly, recalling the sword shop’s jian. The blade had recognized his Qi—his true Qi.
Soon, he promised silently. But first…
Xiao Zhan lay back, moonlight washing over him. Let the others scramble for scraps of power. Let them chase tiers like dogs chasing carts.
He’d walk his own path—quietly, inexorably—until the world remembered what true strength looked like.
[End of Chapter 7]