We cleared the training ground in two days.
Hao did most of the heavy work because Hao always did most of the heavy work. He tore out scrub brush with his bare hands, leveled the uneven patches by dragging a flat stone across the surface, and hauled river gravel to fill the soft spots where standing water collected after rain. I measured, directed, and hauled what I could without slowing him down, which wasn’t much.
The flat ground east of the river cleaned up better than I’d expected. Forty meters by twenty-five of packed earth, smooth enough for footwork and firm enough to hold form during exercises. The river ran along the southern edge, close enough that I could feel the qi in the moving water from the center of the field. The tree line screened the northern side completely. From the village road, you couldn’t see the training ground at all. You’d have to walk the river path past the eastern plots and through a gap in the willows to find it.
On the third morning, before dawn, Hao and I stood at the center of the cleared ground and I taught my brother how to cultivate.
It was step one of a process that I’d tested on myself for weeks and was now trying to translate into instructions another person could follow.
“Close your eyes,” I said. “Press your hands together.”
Hao formed the prayer sign. The focus came immediately for him, that gathering of attention I still had to work for. His breathing slowed without being told.
“Don’t reach for the qi. Let it come to you. Soften your attention. You’re not pulling water uphill. You’re opening a channel and letting it flow downhill.”
“Principle four,” Hao said.
I paused. “You’ve been reading my bark sheets.”
“You hide them under the sleeping mat, Liang. I sleep three feet away.”
Fair enough. “Then you know the first three. Cultivation begins with awareness. The body’s resistance is protective, not pathological. Emotional spikes produce uncontrolled release. All of that applies to what you’ve been doing. You’ve been forcing qi through your body using emotion as the trigger and the prayer sign as a funnel. It works, but it’s wasteful. You burn through energy in seconds because you’re bypassing the channels instead of using them.”
“The mai.”
“The mai. Twelve primary pathways, each one a route that your qi already wants to travel. When you did the stomp on the hillside, you pushed energy from your core down through your legs through raw tissue. If you route that same energy through the kidney mai and the liver mai, which both run from the torso to the lower extremities, the efficiency triples."
“Show me.”
I couldn’t show him the way he meant. My qi output was a candle next to his bonfire. But I could demonstrate the sensing. I pressed the kidney mai point on his lower back and watched him register the pathway opening.
“Feel that line? Follow it down. Through the hip, along the inner thigh, past the knee to the ankle. That’s the route. When you direct qi to your legs, you follow that track instead of flooding everything.”
Hao pressed his palms together and closed his eyes. I felt the qi build in his core, dense and warm, and then instead of the explosive release I’d felt on the hillside, it moved. Down the pathway I’d traced. Through the hip, the thigh, into his legs along a defined channel.
He opened his eyes. “That’s completely different.”
“How?”
“Before it was like shoving a boulder. This is like pouring water. The resistance is gone.” He shifted his weight, testing the qi in his legs. “I could actually sustain this.”
“That’s the point. Bursts are useful. Sustained channeling is what turns a farmer into a cultivator.”
He stood there for a while, eyes closed, the energy circulating through the kidney mai with a smoothness that had taken me three weeks to achieve in the lung pathway. I didn’t let the comparison bother me.
We worked for an hour. I walked him through three of the twelve pathways, the kidney, liver, and lung mai, and by the end of the session he could route qi through all three independently and switch between them on command. His control was rough. The energy leaked at the transitions between pathways, dissipating at the joints where one mai ended and another began. But the foundation was there. Reproducible, improvable, and nothing like the raw explosions he’d been producing before.
“Same time tomorrow,” I said.
Hao pulled his hands apart and flexed his fingers. “How long until I can teach this to someone else?”
The question caught me. “You’re thinking about that already?”
“You said cultivation is a skill, not a gift. Principle five says any technique that works for one person should work for anyone with the aptitude.” He looked at the training ground, the flat earth, the river, the willow screen. “This place isn’t for the two of us, Liang. You built it for a class.”
He wasn’t wrong. He was also about two weeks ahead of the timeline I’d been keeping in my head. But the training ground existed, the first session had produced results, and my brother was asking when he could start teaching others. The plan was accelerating under its own momentum.
“Soon,” I said. “Let me get the curriculum down on something more permanent than bark first.”
Wang Su’s cart appeared on the northern road four days later.
I spotted him from the drying rack during my morning check and was at the gate before he reached it. He looked the same as last time. Road-worn, lean, the perpetual squint of a man who spent his life in sunlight. His cart was heavier.
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“Your list,” he said, handing me a wrapped bundle. “Ink, paper, rope, three ceramic storage jars, and as much iron stock as I could source without drawing attention at the Meishan market. Iron’s tight. The forges are running war production and anything that moves through civilian channels gets noticed.”
I unwrapped the bundle. Two ink sticks, a grinding stone, and a stack of paper that smelled like fresh mulberry bark. Exactly what I needed.
“What do I owe you?”
“The grain surplus you promised. Three shi, delivered to my cart before I leave. I’ll sell it at the Dongshan market where Hekou rice is becoming something of a reputation.”
“Our rice has a reputation?”
“Your rice is clean, dry, and properly stored. In a region where most villages are delivering weevil-ridden garbage to tax collectors and traders alike, clean grain stands out.” He adjusted his hat. “I’ve had two merchants ask where I source it. I didn’t tell them. But you should know that quality draws attention the same as quantity.”
Another variable to manage. Hekou’s grain quality was a strength that could become a liability if it attracted the wrong interest.
“How are the roads?” I asked.
“Worse. The Lord’s eastern campaign is pulling soldiers through every major route. Military traffic has priority at every checkpoint, which means civilian carts wait. I lost two days at the Jiankou crossing.” Wang Su leaned closer.
“And there’s talk in Meishan. The Prefect is reorganizing his garrison. New cultivators coming in from the hill clans. Replacements, or reinforcements. Nobody I talked to could tell me which.”
New cultivators. More war practitioners funneled into the Prefect’s enforcement apparatus. The four that Gao Ren had described might become six or eight by next season.
“Thank you,” I said. “Stay for dinner. Hao will insist anyway.”
“Your brother’s hospitality is half the reason this village is on my route.” Wang Su smiled and pushed his cart toward the commons.
I spent that night writing by candlelight. Brush, ink, paper. The bark sheets spread beside me as reference, weeks of scratched observations translated into clean characters and plain language.
The Five Principles of Cultivation. Each principle stated, explained in two sentences, followed by a practical exercise any beginner could attempt.
Below the principles, the twelve mai drawn as anatomical pathways with pressure points for activation, annotated with notes from my own practice and Hao’s feedback. A map that treated the human body as infrastructure rather than mystery.
When the pages dried, I didn’t tuck them under the sleeping mat. I went and found people.
Gao Ren was awake before dawn, rebuilding his forge now that the collectors were gone. I found him at the creek bed fitting stones into the base, his bad knee braced against a river rock.
“I need twenty men who can hold a stick without hitting themselves,” I said.
He didn’t look up. “Militia?”
“The Prefect’s garrison is growing. New cultivators from the hill clans. Next time collectors come, they might bring enforcement. I need bodies who can stand in a line, hold a formation, and not break when someone shouts at them.”
“That’s three months of drill minimum.”
“Then we start today. You and Duan. He carried a spear at Liuwan before it fell. Between the two of you, you’ve got three campaigns and a supply line background. I’m not asking for soldiers. I’m asking for a defensive unit that can hold the fence line and buy time.”
Gao Ren set down the stone he was holding and looked at me. “Buy time for what?”
“For whatever comes next.”
He held the look for a long moment. Then he stood, brushed his hands on his trousers, and said, “I’ll talk to Duan. We’ll need wooden poles, roughly spear-length. The Wei brothers can cut them from the hillside stand.”
“I’ll have them ready by afternoon.”
“And Pei Liang.” He caught my arm as I turned. “Twenty men pulled from the labor rotation means twenty men not working fields. Your grain math needs to account for that.”
“Already does. Morning drills, two hours before the fields. Nobody misses planting.”
He let go. Something shifted in his face that might have been the closest Gao Ren got to being impressed. “Two hours. I can work with two hours.”
By midday, Duan and Gao Ren had twenty-two volunteers standing in a rough line on the flat ground north of the village commons, each holding a stripped pine pole the length of a man. Duan walked the line correcting grips while Gao Ren stood at the front and explained, in blunt language, why standing in a line mattered.
I watched from the fence. The men were clumsy. Their spacing was wrong. Three of them were holding the poles like fishing rods. But they were there, and they were listening, and Gao Ren’s flat voice cut through their nervousness like a blade through water.
That was track one.
Track two started in my household.
Mother was sitting upright when I came in, grinding dried herbs on the stone mortar she’d kept since her apprenticeship days. Her color was better this week. The coughing came in shorter bursts with longer gaps between them.
“I need you to teach,” I said.
“Teach what?”
“Everything Sun Ai taught you. Herbs, preparation, dosing, the pressure points, the diagnostic pulse work. All of it.”
She set the pestle down. “To whom?”
“To whoever will learn. Start with Wei Suyin.”
“The Wei girl?” Mother’s eyebrows rose. “She’s been following me during the wellness rounds. She never asks permission, she just appears at my shoulder.”
“She’s been doing it for three weeks. That’s more than just curiosity, that’s aptitude. And the Liu matriarch keeps asking about your chrysanthemum preparations. And the Chen widow watches your hands every time you examine her children.”
Mother was quiet for a moment, processing. “You want a healer’s school.”
“I want knowledge that lives in your head to live in other people’s heads. If something happens to you, everything Sun Ai taught you dies. Twenty years of medical training, gone. That’s not acceptable.”
It came out harder than I’d intended. Mother looked at me, and for a moment I saw her see past the logistics, past the planning, to the son who was terrified of losing her.
“I’ll start with the herb work,” she said. “Wei Suyin and whoever else comes. But I teach at my pace, Liang. Medicine done badly is worse than no medicine at all.”
“Your pace. I won’t interfere.”
That afternoon, Wei Suyin sat on the floor of our house while Mother laid out dried herbs in rows and named each one, its uses, its preparations, its dangers.
The Liu matriarch arrived an hour later without being invited.
The Chen widow came after that, her two children playing in the doorway.
By evening, four women were grinding herbs under Mother’s supervision, and the house smelled like chrysanthemum and ginger.
That was track two.
Track three was the training ground. Hao and me, dawn sessions, building the curriculum through practice.
But the tracks weren’t separate. That was the point. Gao Ren’s militia drills built discipline and fitness that would serve anyone who later showed cultivation aptitude. Mother’s medical training produced healers who understood the mai from the clinical side, which meant they’d grasp the cultivation applications faster if they ever crossed over.
The cultivation curriculum I was developing with Hao would eventually feed techniques back to the militia, body conditioning methods that didn’t require qi but benefited from understanding how the body’s energy moved.
I stood at the edge of the training ground that evening and listened to the village.
Gao Ren’s voice carrying from the commons, drilling footwork into farmers who’d never held a weapon.
The sound of a pestle grinding herbs from our house, where Mother’s first class was still going.
Hao laughing somewhere near the river, probably helping the Wei brothers haul the last of the practice poles.
I picked up the cultivation pages and walked toward the river.
Tomorrow’s dawn session, I’d test whether the qi sensing exercises worked on someone other than Hao.
Wei Bolin had that dense, steady signature I’d noticed during the wellness checks. If the principles were truly reproducible, truly teachable, he’d be the proof of it.
But for now, I enjoyed the ambiance of a village hard at work.