Chapter 2 - Childish Concerns (Patreon)

Time passes.

He bullies his tiny, useless little body into moving, first dragging himself along the floor, then grabbing random objects and levering himself up as best he can, marvelling at the lack of pain and stiffness and promptly deciding that he utterly refuses to take it for granted, taking any opportunity he can to drag himself around the room, much to his mother’s bemusement. 

As soon as he figures out how to walk again – balance is surprisingly challenging as a baby – his mother runs herself ragged trying to make sure he doesn’t totter into something and injure himself. She seems surprised and a little concerned at his activity. He suspects he’s hitting a few of the developmental milestones early, but eventually she calms down. 

He suspects she’s just happy he’s no longer passing out every few minutes.

He doesn’t know the specifics of the situation, but his father doesn’t seem to be around to help out. Instead, there appears to be a small circle of other mothers who come and help out around the house, drinking tea and watching their children crawl around, trying to find new and exciting objects to stuff into their mouths. Having no real interest in interacting with other babies, he sticks to the room’s edges and works on his manual dexterity. 

Precise movement is slowly becoming easier. He still smears his food all over his face when eating, but at least he can reliably make a fist now. Progress is progress, no matter how small.

Talking, on the other hand, is much harder than he had expected.

Part of it is how his tongue feels thick and uncooperative in his mouth, but most of it is trying to get used to his own damn voice. Gone is his old silky baritone – the one part of his old body that had actually worked the way it was supposed to. Sure, his vital organs had a nasty habit of failing him, but at least he could get the ladies to blush with nothing but a terrible pickup line and a crooked grin. 

Now it’s high-pitched and squeaky and still startles him every time he tries forming words. Still, trading his sexy voice for the ability to actually walk is a pretty good deal, so he perseveres as best he can.

His first words to his mother make her weep even as she smiles so brightly at him.

“I love you, mum,” he squeaks at her and promptly becomes the subject of much jealousy from the other mothers in her little circle of friends.

It doesn’t help that she brags about it endlessly. Brags and boasts and laughs at his obvious embarrassment but doesn’t stop.

“Lighten up, squeaker,” she giggles and squishes his cheeks between her warm palms. “I’ve got the sweetest, cleverest little son and I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

He scowls back until she presses their noses together in an Eskimo kiss and he can’t help but laugh along with her.

Things pick up now that he can communicate. First of all, what he’d thought was his name was actually something called a ‘milk name’, which was apparently just a nickname that everyone used until the kid was old enough for a proper one. He wasn’t entirely sure why they waited for so long, but considering how his mother avoided the question he assumed it had something to do with infant mortality. 

So now he’s named Lin Zhujiao, which was apparently an ancestral name of some kind. It’s a little weird, he’s not going to lie, but then he hardly expected to be able to keep his old name. He also learns that his mother’s name is Lin Mei. It takes him longer than he’s comfortable admitting to realise that they put the family name first, but at least his mother seems to think it’s hilarious.

It’s not the only thing backwards about this place either, though it isn’t until he starts learning to read and his mother pulls out a scroll of all things that it really clicks for him – it’s not just that he’s in a different country, he’s in a different time period. 

In hindsight, it should have been more obvious, considering they didn’t have electric lights or even any running water, but in fairness, it’s a leap. Sure, everything looks like it was made by hand, but his mother is insistent on washing his hands before he eats, and the doctor they went to seemed like he knew what he was doing.

He was never much of a history buff, but he’s pretty sure those were more modern practices.

What’s even more interesting is the content of the stories she’s telling him. There are a few of the typical ‘look at young Lu Ri share his toys with his friends’ type stories designed to teach children lessons, but he’s disinterested enough that his mother doesn’t bother reading those to him after the first few tries.

Instead, she pivots to what seems to be fairy tales and folklore, which is much more enjoyable. There’s a rhythmic cadence to her speech that makes him think she has a lot of practice telling these kinds of stories, not to mention just how many of them she knows.

It quickly becomes his favourite part of the day, sitting down on the rough wooden floor and listening to her speak.

She tells him tales of great heroes, mythical creatures, and ancient legends. One story, in particular, catches his attention—a tale about cultivators, people who harness the power of Qi.

“What’s a Cultivator?” he asks one evening, curiosity overcoming him.

“Cultivators are mighty warriors who can control their Qi,” she explains after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s said a skilled Cultivator can heal wounds with a touch, move with the speed of the wind, and even harness the elements.” 

If he hadn’t heard the doctor ask her if she had any cultivators in the family, he may have just dismissed it as tall tales – like the folklore version of a superhero story. But when combined with the well of energy he can feel buzzing inside him even now, he couldn’t help but think… well. 

What if he’s not the only one that can sense this energy? What if he’s making the critical mistake of assuming he knows what is and isn’t possible just because he has memories of a more advanced education that told him magic was nothing but a work of fiction?

For goodness sake, he’s been, as far as he can tell, reincarnated. If that doesn’t prove his understanding of the universe is somewhere between woefully inadequate and breathtakingly wrong, what does?

If nothing else, the stories give him a starting point. While they don’t have any specific details on how to control Qi or use the techniques cultivators seem famous for, they do roughly outline the stages of progress.

He learns that cultivation is broken up into nine distinct realms, each one more powerful and difficult to obtain than the last. Each realm is, in turn, broken into nine distinct stages. From what he can tell, the first realm is called Qi Condensation and seems to involve ‘reaching out to the world around him’ or something. Really, it’s frustrating that his best sources of information are stories because they tend to skip right over the practicalities.

After all, who wants to hear about the cultivator who spent years figuring out how everything worked when you could skip right to the good stuff?

But while Zhujiao might not have any knowledge of the specifics of Qi, he’s got a whole world worth of fantasy and superhero stories to draw ideas from. Learning to use Qi might not make him a Jedi, but there are enough similarities to the Force that he’s willing to try meditating and seeing if he can ‘reach out to the world’ in that way.

It’s… not as easy as he thought.

For starters, he’s never actually tried meditation before, so he doesn’t really know much about it beyond sitting cross-legged and saying ‘ohmm’ a lot. 

Still, Zhujiao is nothing if not stubborn, and he can sort of sense something when he really focuses.

He practices diligently, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room each night after his mother has gone to bed, focusing on his breathing and trying to reach out to the energy he knows is there. The first few nights are discouraging; he can’t seem to grasp the Qi, and his thoughts keep wandering. He sticks at it anyway. The payoff will be more than worth it, and it’s not like he has much else to amuse himself with.

He never realised how much he relied on the internet to distract himself.

Besides, by the sounds of things Cultivators spend decades if not centuries working on this stuff, so it would be strange if he could pick it up over the course of a few weeks. That in itself is a powerful motivator – apparently, cultivators can extend their life practically indefinitely, staving off both old age and illness. The idea that he will never again have to helplessly feel his body wasting away from illness is all the fuel he will ever need to keep pushing.

He sighs as the energy slips away from his mental grasp again.

Doesn’t make it any less boring though.

Life continues around him as he practices. Over the course of a few weeks he makes some progress as he gradually attunes his senses. He’s taken to imagining the ambient Qi as tiny particles of light, floating in the air. It’s just a mental trick of course, Qi being invisible to the naked eye, but it seems to help him visualise the process of gathering the energy in his dantian.

The hard part is getting any of the energy to stay in his dantian. He’s not sure what part of the process he’s missing, but no matter how much Qi he gathers or how tightly he tries to condense it, as soon as he stops concentrating it slips away from him.

Incredibly frustrating.

Worse, his mother has started going back to work, and whatever it is she does for a living is apparently not suited for children, so each morning, he finds himself dropped on his neighbour’s doorstep.

It’s hardly his first choice of situations, especially as the woman – or ‘Auntie Hua’, as she insists – seems to take particular delight in pinching his cheeks and cooing over him. It’s a little frustrating, but hey, he’s an adult. He can deal. Besides, it’s not like he can blame her. 

He is adorable. 

Unfortunately for his sanity, she has a daughter. Her name is Meilan, and she has made it a personal mission to make sure he doesn’t get any time to himself. He doesn’t even know why. It’s not like he’s doing anything interesting; most days he eats whatever snack Auntie Hua puts in front of him (she makes the best steamed buns), then moves on to pretending to read a children’s book while actually trying to reach out and wrangle the ambient Qi.

Really, he’d be impressed at her dedication if it wasn’t so damn annoying.

He’s yanked from his half-way successful attempt at compressing the Qi in his dantian by a compact figure crashing in to him from the side. He ends up with Meilan draped over him, pinning him awkwardly to the floor.

If he was actually as old as he looked he would probably would have burst into tears by now. He eyes the plastic container containing his last steam bun and considers the merits of using it to bludgeon his way to freedom. If Meilan hadn’t pinned both arms to his side he’d probably try it. 

He’s broken from his thoughts again by a finger poking his cheek. His eye twitches.

“Whatcha doin’?” Meilan croons, continuing to poke.

‘Kids are supposed to lose interest if you don’t react, right?’ he wonders optimistically.

“Thinking,” he replies, hoping a simple answer will satisfy her.

She stops poking, but he can feel her staring at him, expectant and unconvinced. It’s clear she’s not going anywhere, so he tries to ignore her and refocus on the Qi.

“That’s boring,” she says bluntly. “Mama says you’re too shy and you need to play more.” 

Zhujiao inwardly groans. It figures that Auntie Hua would be encouraging this. He can’t fault her for trying to get him to be more social, but he wishes it didn’t come at the expense of his practice.

“Wanna play tag?” she suggests, already shifting her weight as if she’s about to spring up and run.

He suppresses a sigh. Even if, for some gods-forsaken reason, he did want to play tag, she’s somehow forgotten that she’s almost twice his age – he has precisely no hope of catching her. Still, he also knows from bitter experience that he won’t get any peace unless he entertains her for a bit. Besides, a little physical activity might help clear his mind.

“Alright,” he agrees, and before the word is fully out of his mouth, Meilan is off, her laughter echoing through the house.

He totters off after her with all the grace his two-and-a-half-year-old body can muster, grumbling to himself the whole time and wishing he had been left alone.

The secrets of ultimate power won’t reveal themselves, dammit.