a journey into immortal cultivation

Chapter 24: Cultivation

Chapter 24 — Cultivation

After drawing plenty of water from the mountain spring, Wang Lin returned to his room to make spirit-infused springwater. Come nightfall, he barred the door, tied a cord from the latch to his arm—so that the slightest opening would rouse him—and sat down to work.

He took several big swigs of the springwater. Heat surged through his body. Gripping the stone bead, he slipped into the dreamscape.

In that boundless space he sat cross-legged, breathing in the one-long, three-short rhythm. All around him, countless points of light shed gentle rays; when they fell upon him, they broke into fine motes that quietly seeped into his flesh. Wang Lin sensed none of it.

After roughly a full day there, the springwater’s spiritual energy dispersed. This time, though, he clearly felt something different. In the past, after drinking medicinal decoctions, the warmth would rise and then dissipate, leaving nothing behind. Now, although most of the qi still ebbed away, a faint trace remained in his body. It wasn’t much, but it gave Wang Lin real confidence. He puzzled over the cause for a long time and, unable to pin it down, finally credited it to the mysterious bead.

Because he couldn’t leave the dream at will to replenish the water, he tried continuing with ordinary breathing practice. He soon discovered a difference from the outside world: outside, even without the “ant-crawling” sensation of qi entering, a month of practice left him refreshed and comfortable each session. Here, once the springwater qi faded, further cultivation brought no ease—only shortness of breath and tightness in the chest.

Mulling it over, he arrived at a tentative conclusion: there was no ambient spiritual energy in the dreamscape.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Another oddity nagged him: he was wearing his red inner-disciple robe in the dream, yet his storage pouch was gone. “Clothes can appear here, but a storage pouch can’t…” He patted the spot where he usually kept it and found nothing.

He reasoned that what could come in were merely mundane items—things without qi. Objects that carried spiritual energy, like the pouch (and perhaps certain containers), were excluded.

When twenty-five hours had elapsed, the tearing sensation returned and he woke.

One question remained: why could he only enter after about two and a half hours had passed outside? With that in mind, he poured springwater into a gourd and tucked it into his clothes, then tried to re-enter immediately—only to find that no matter how long he stared at the bead, drowsiness wouldn’t come. Startled, he reviewed each prior entry in detail, set his worry aside, and resumed breathing practice.

He cultivated through the day, now and then raising the gourd to keep his body supplied with spirit-rich water. Each time he later picked up the bead and fixed his gaze on it, nothing happened—until night deepened. Then, at last, drowsiness welled up. Delighted, he broke eye contact and waited; the sleepiness ebbed. Pacing the room, stroking his chin, he retraced the timing of his four previous entries. The first two had been back-to-back; the third came after he’d watched an oil lamp burn for more than two hours; the fourth had been separated by a full day.

The pattern was clear: there was a cooldown. Safest was to wait at least a bit over two hours between attempts to ensure entry.

With that solved, he prepared a test to learn what could and couldn’t be brought into the dream. He gathered a pile of items: three gourds—one with the last of his dew, one empty, one filled with springwater—plus shards of the broken stone bowl, several sweet potatoes, and spare clothing. Laden with odds and ends, he stared at the bead and slipped under.

Inside, he checked himself at once. The sweet potatoes, clothes, and bowl shards were present; the three gourds and the storage pouch were not.

Puzzled, he linked this back to his earlier guess: the dream held no qi, and anything that contained spiritual energy could not pass through. The three gourds and the pouch all carried traces of qi, so they were rejected.

He sighed. If he couldn’t bring gourds in, then a few mouthfuls before entry would never sustain long practice inside. As he brooded, a spark flashed through his mind—something half-caught. He chased the thought until it clicked: springwater itself carried qi and was blocked, but water already drunk and in his body remained after entry.

In other words, the rule wasn’t absolute. If he found the right method, perhaps he could “sneak” spiritwater into the dream.

When the twenty-five hours were up, he hurried out, roamed the mountain paths, and picked several fresh wild gourds. Back home, he filled them with springwater. His hunch was that the old gourds had been steeped in dew so long they’d absorbed qi and were thus barred. Newly picked, qi-free gourds might fool the dream’s gate.

After waiting the two-plus-hour interval, Wang Lin entered again with four or five gourds hanging from his belt. The moment he arrived he checked—every gourd was there. He uncorked one: the water remained. He took a testing sip—still rich with qi.

Elated, he drank deep, sat cross-legged, and began cultivating in earnest. Each time the qi inside him thinned, he drank again. Bit by bit, wisps of spiritual energy accumulated within him, slowly altering his constitution and edging him toward the first layer of Qi Condensation.

Around him, those light-bodies once more shed motes that slid into him, silent and unseen.

Given Wang Lin’s meager spiritual roots, without the bead and without spirit liquids, he would have needed years just to touch the first layer—decades, if the Dissolving Grass still lingered in his body. A month of Sun Dazhu’s decoctions had shortened that path. His inadvertent “scattering of*” had expelled the Dissolving Grass; even so, it should have taken ten years or more. But now he lacked for no qi, and he possessed a dreamscape where time flowed tenfold.

Qi Condensation, first layer—within reach.