Lan had returned to his chambers quickly. He had no more time to waste.
The moment he shut the door to his room, the toke in his pocket felt like a lead stone. He pulled it out, turning it over in his fingers. The silver was cold, the phoenix engraving too precise, too intentional.
A gift? A test? Or maybe a noose disguised as a lifeline?
It wasn't important now.
He tossed it onto the bedside table. Currently, it meant nothing.
What mattered was his meridians.
He couldn't afford to be weak. Not anymore.
Lan sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the bed, and closed his eyes.
The Frozen Vein Purification technique came easier this time. The cold slithered through him, familiar now, biting at his veins like winter's teeth. The third meridian resisted, clogged with something thicker than before—not just blockage, but malice.
It fought back, twisting against his qi as though it were sentient.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His fingers dug into his knees hard enough to bruise.
Push.
The meridian shuddered, then—
Snap.
Open.
Qi rushed through, a shock of relief so sharp it nearly knocked him breathless.
But the fourth was worse.
And the fifth?
Agony.
By the sixth meridian, Lan's vision swam. Blood trickled from his nose, hot and metallic on his lips. The darkness inside him wasn't just resisting now—it was attacking, lashing back with every attempt to cleanse it.
Lan gritted his teeth and pushed harder.
A mistake.
The backlash hit like a hammer to the chest. His qi recoiled, spiraling out of control, tearing through his meridians like shrapnel.
No—
He barely had time to register the damage before the pain swallowed him completely. His body locked, muscles seizing, his breath wet and uneven when it came. Blood filled his mouth.
For a second, he thought he'd ruined everything.
Then he remembered the vial.
Lan fumbled for it, fingers slick with sweat and blood. The cork came free with a pop. He didn't hesitate—didn't savor the taste, didn't wonder if it was poison. He drank it in one swallow.
The effect was instant.
Warmth flooded his chest, sweet as summer honey, mending the torn pathways inside him with gentle, relentless precision. The pain dulled. His breathing steadied.
And then—
A thought, clear and sharp:
Now or never.
The elixir wouldn't last. He had minutes, maybe less, before its power faded.
So he pushed again.
Not carefully. Not gently.
Violently. Desperately.
The seventh meridian shattered open.
The eighth followed.
The ninth screamed in protest, but Lan didn't stop. Couldn't stop. He rode the elixir's fading current like a man possessed, tearing through the last of the blockages with single-minded fury.
Tenth.
Eleventh.
Then—
The twelfth.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then it felt like something within him exploded.
Qi surged through, a tidal wave of power so vast it threatened to drown him. His dantian—cracked, starved, dying for years—woke up.
It was like breathing for the first time.
Like seeing color after a lifetime of gray.
Lan gasped, his back arching off the floor, his fingers clawing at the stones beneath him as the energy settled into his bones, his blood, his soul.
Then, just as suddenly as it began—
Silence.
Peace.
He lay there, chest heaving, his body trembling with the aftershocks. The room smelled of blood and frost and something electric, like the air would after a thunderous rain.
Slowly, he sat up.
Then he laughed.
It was a weird sound, a laugh of half-disbelief, half-triumph.
He'd done it.
Finally.
Lan's laughter died in his throat as the understanding of what he'd just done settled over him.
For Xie, this perhaps didn't mean much, but he was Lan as well and this first complete step on a journey to great power meant everything.
The rush of power was intoxicating—like standing in the eye of a hurricane, feeling the storm rage around him while he remained perfectly, dangerously still. But storms didn't last. And neither would this high if he didn't control it.
He exhaled, long and slow, forcing his heartbeat to steady.
'Stabilize first. Celebrate later.'
His last life memories surfaced in his mind:
'Raw power was useless if the channels couldn't contain it.'
Lan pressed his palms flat against the floor, letting the cool stone ground him. His breathing deepened—in through the nose, out through the mouth—each cycle slower than the last. The qi inside him, wild and thrashing like a mad animal would, began to still.
It wasn't enough.
He needed structure.
With deliberate care, Lan began guiding the energy through his meridians in slow, measured loops—not forcing, not demanding, but inviting the qi to flow where it needed to go. Like coaxing water through dry riverbeds after a drought.
The effect was immediate.
The burning sensation in his veins dulled. The headache pounding behind his eyes eased. His muscles, tense as drawn bowstrings, relaxed one by one.
But he didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not when the slightest misstep could destroy everything.
'Meridians were living pathways—they needed care, not just use.'
Lan visualized his qi as sunlight—warm, gentle, healing—seeping into the newly opened pathways. Where before there had been only rupture and resistance, now there was growth. The fragile walls of his meridians thickened, strengthened, adapting to the energy they'd been starved of for so long.
It was tedious work.
Maddeningly slow.
But necessary.
By the time he opened his eyes, the room was dark— manh hours had passed without him noticing. His body ached, but it was a good ache, the kind that came after a hard-won fight.
Lan flexed his fingers, marveling at the faint golden glow that flickered beneath his skin before fading.
Progress.
But only the beginning.