Chapter Five: The Qi Sea is Formed, and the Heavenly Gate Opens

At this moment, Fang Zheng’s state was rather peculiar. According to Old Shen, he was on the verge of forming his Qi Sea. All that remained was to let things progress naturally; when the warmth in his lower abdomen reached its peak, it would swiftly subside, and the Qi Sea would take shape—a reservoir for inner energy henceforth.

Fang Zheng had once inquired in detail about this process: how exactly was one to recognize this “peak,” and what did “swiftly” mean in this context? He had posed the question almost offhandedly, but Old Shen offered a thorough explanation. In later conversations, Fang Zheng learned that the old man had practiced inner arts in his youth, though he never elaborated much on the particulars.

According to Old Shen, this so-called “peak” was precisely what Fang Zheng was feeling now: a raging inferno in his abdomen, no longer the gentle warmth it had been before, but a scorching blaze that lasted only a few breaths.

Yet now, this “fire” in Fang Zheng’s belly had been burning for a long while and showed no sign of subsiding. Instead, it surged fiercely upward along his torso, reaching the top of his head, as if to burst forth from his crown. This left his appearance rather alarming.

Fang Zheng’s entire face was flushed as if scorched, and the lingering aura of violence from his lethal arrow still hung about him. The onlookers were caught in an agony of indecision, unsure whether to stay or leave, all of them regretting coming to witness the spectacle. The scene was silent, save for the steady drip of blood from the shaft of the arrow.

After the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, Fang Zheng rose to his feet—his face still crimson, his gaze icy cold. He swept his eyes across the crowd, causing all present to bow their heads.

“For today’s events, I will pursue the matter no further. But if such a thing happens again, your fate will be the same as this wretch on the ground.” His voice was rough, burned hoarse by the “fire” in his chest.

With that, Fang Zheng returned to the house, ignoring everything outside. Right now, the most important thing was to comfort the little girl’s frightened heart.

Inside, the little girl sat quietly on the bed, hugging her knees, trembling slightly. She didn’t even notice Fang Zheng’s return.

“Yaya?” Fang Zheng called softly. The girl lifted her head, her eyes finally focusing. Seeing Fang Zheng, she rushed into his arms and burst into tears. Fang Zheng let out a silent sigh of relief—crying was the best release; he feared only the silent, repressed suffering.

He gently patted her back. “Don’t be afraid, Yaya. Big brother chased away the bad man. No one will ever bully you or grandma again.”

At the mention of “bad man,” Yaya trembled, but she listened to his words.

“Really? The bad man won’t come back?” she asked with a quavering voice.

“Never. He’ll never come back. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

It took more than half an hour before Fang Zheng calmed the girl down, and by then, she had fallen asleep in his arms. He tried to lay her down so she could rest more comfortably, but her hands clung tightly to his clothes. With a helpless smile, he resigned himself to holding her as they slept.

But there was still the matter of the body in the courtyard—the man in gray lay dead at its center. The crowd of spectators had likely dispersed; Fang Zheng had heard their hesitant footsteps earlier.

“Boy Fang, are you there?” Just as Fang Zheng was brooding, he heard a voice in the courtyard. Holding the little girl, he went to the door to look out.

“You’ve made quite a scene. Where did all that murderous intent come from?” It was Old Shen, much to Fang Zheng’s surprise. After their conversation that morning, they’d become familiar, and Old Shen’s address had grown casual.

“What brings you here, Old Shen? I killed because I had to, and he deserved it. Do you have any advice?” Fang Zheng knew Old Shen and the man in gray, though sharing a surname, had no connection. The ruffian was a loner, living by petty theft and trickery, and Old Shen’s demeanor was not that of someone coming to accuse him.

“What advice could I give? You killed decisively, and it was satisfying, but now what do you plan to do with the aftermath?”

“I didn’t think that far ahead. In the heat of the moment, I only wanted him dead. Now that it’s done, I’ll deal with what comes. There’s always a way forward.”

“Haha, well said! You’re more and more to my liking. In my youth, I’d have cut down that dog long ago. But now, I lack the strength…”

Here, Old Shen’s tone grew wistful. From their conversations, Fang Zheng could sense that the old man had once been a heroic figure, but now ran a humble apothecary for reasons he did not share, and Fang Zheng would not pry.

“Take care of the girl. Leave the yard to me. There’s no need to worry too much. We’re far from the authorities, and the villagers here are self-serving—they won’t report you. Besides, the Prince of Liang favors scholars these days; even if the officials come, it’ll be a matter of paying a fine at most.”

Fang Zheng was about to reply when the girl in his arms began to tremble, clutching his clothes as if in the throes of a nightmare, mumbling about “bad men.” He could only comfort her with gentle pats.

“Ah, poor child. She’s been orphaned since birth—she and her grandmother have lived a hard life. Madam Zhao won’t last many more years. What are your plans for the future?” Old Shen’s question was skillful; he did not ask if Fang Zheng would care for the girl, but rather his plans, testing his intentions.

“For now, I’ll stay here. As for how long, I can’t say. As for the child—” Here, Fang Zheng paused, gently brushing the girl’s hair before continuing, “—she is my sister.”

“Good! I knew I was right about you. Go on inside. I’ll drag this corpse out and feed it to the dogs. Best not let Madam Zhao see such a grisly sight.” With that, Old Shen departed. Soon after, he returned with two young men and a wheelbarrow, and they quickly set about cleaning the courtyard.

Only then did Fang Zheng realize Old Shen had come with a clear purpose: to help him deal with the aftermath. New to the area, he wouldn’t have known where to dispose of a body. Fang Zheng made a silent note of this favor.

The two young men worked swiftly. In no time, the courtyard was spotless, the bloodstains scrubbed away. Their work done, they left with Old Shen.

Fang Zheng, however, was troubled by something else: the hot current in his body still surged violently. He had forgotten to ask Old Shen about it. But with Yaya clinging to him, he could only wait until Madam Zhao returned or the girl awoke before seeking advice.

He stood quietly at the doorway, holding the sleeping child, reflecting on the day’s events. He did not regret killing; even if there were consequences, he would not have hesitated. He was more concerned with his own condition and the future. Today had been an awakening—when he left, he would have to take the girl with him, no matter how Madam Zhao might feel. As long as he drew breath, she would never go hungry—not merely out of gratitude.

Perhaps because Fang Zheng’s body was burning like a furnace, the child slept soundly in his arms, even tugging at her clothes in her sleep as if she felt hot. Fang Zheng tucked her in carefully, worried she might catch cold, and carried her back inside.

When Madam Zhao returned at noon, she noticed something odd as she walked through the village. Those who usually greeted her with mockery now averted their eyes and hurried past. She paid it little mind—since bringing Yaya here, she’d seen few kind faces. Today’s indifference was at least better than open scorn.

In her basket were a few sparse herbs. Wiping sweat from her brow, Madam Zhao hurried home. But Yaya did not come out to greet her as usual. The girl always waited at the door, eager to boast about what she’d cooked. In truth, they survived mostly on coarse grains and wild greens—there was never anything special. The thought brought a bittersweet smile.

Entering the yard, Madam Zhao noticed more differences. She had lived here over ten years—she knew every inch. The courtyard had just been swept, yet the traces were different from her own cleaning that morning. Fresh earth covered a spot in the center, and there lingered a faint scent of blood. She gave it little thought. Seeing Fang Zheng’s door open, she called, “Little Fang?”

Hearing her voice, Fang Zheng emerged, the child still in his arms.

“What’s wrong with Yaya? Is she asleep?” Madam Zhao was anxious, not even setting down her basket as she hurried over.

“Don’t worry, Auntie. She’s only sleeping. The child was frightened today and has become a bit clingy.”

Fang Zheng chose his words carefully, unsure how to explain. At that moment, the girl stirred, rubbing her eyes like a kitten. Seeing Madam Zhao, she burst into tears and threw herself into her grandmother’s arms. Madam Zhao comforted her, casting a puzzled look at Fang Zheng.

Seeing her struggle to hold the child, Fang Zheng gently coaxed, “Yaya, be good and get down. Grandma is getting old—you’re a big girl now, and she can’t hold you anymore.” Though still sniffling, the girl calmed and stood by Madam Zhao’s side, gripping her arm with one hand and clutching her candied hawthorn with the other.

Just as Fang Zheng was about to explain everything, the hot current within him surged violently. He felt an intense wave of heat rise from his lower dantian, passing through the vital gates, piercing upward, and with a thunderous rush, it exploded at the crown of his head, as if a door had been flung open in his mind...