Immortal cultivation

Mingyao stood still, her gaze fixed on the girl.

The maid looked no older than sixteen. Her figure was slight, almost fragile, with a childlike softness that belied the quiet intensity of her movements. She wasn't fighting, she was only sweeping. And yet, each arc of her broom carried the weight of a blade. Sword intent rippled faintly in the air — waves of invisible steel Mingyao could almost feel pressing against her skin. She was only sweeping fallen leaves, yet every motion carried profound meaning.

She wore garments cut in the same style as Mingyao's, but where Mingyao's robes carried the muted hues of sky and sea, the maid's were pure white like moonlight on snow. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching the light with each turn of her body, so clean it almost hurt the eyes.

When the final sweep landed, the girl lowered her broom and turned. "Have you mastered it?"

Mingyao blinked. The words barely registered. Her mind was still replaying the sequence, every sweep and arc etched into her thoughts. That hadn't been a simple ritual—it was a sword technique in disguise.

Mingyao analyzed the sequence. The maid began with a slow, heavy motion, pressing her strength through the broom. Each arc flowed without pause or deviation, carried through to completion. She followed a pattern—east, south, west, north—before beginning again in the same order.

At the end of each cycle, her movements quickened, as though releasing the energy she had been gathering. Her control was such that even leaves beyond the broom's reach shifted as she willed, drawn in and scattered until a great pile formed with the smallest of gestures.

Mingyao could not tell if she was watching a servant sweep the courtyard, or a swordswoman refining her blade.

"Hello?" The girl tilted her head, voice cutting through Mingyao's thoughts. "Did you learn it, or not?"

"I…" Mingyao stammered, still stunned. "I think I've grasped the motions. May I try?"

"Of course. That's why I showed you." Her lips quirked, half-amused. "Or have you already forgotten?"

Mingyao flushed and bowed. "No—thank you."

She raised her broom, replaying the maid's movements in her mind. Heavy beginnings. Flowing arcs. The four directions. Then the burst. She swept—

Crack!

The broom splintered in her hands. Not a single leaf stirred.

The girl sighed, though her eyes softened. "You've caught the steps, but not the essence." She handed Mingyao another broom, as though she had anticipated this moment from the start. "Don't just mimic with your eyes. See with your spirit. Understand the essence beneath it all. Try again."

Essence.

Hearing those words, Mingyao was certain. This was training, hidden behind the veil of chores. To what end, she could not yet guess. She pushed the thought aside and focused on the task, searching for the essence within the technique.

It was clear now: the method was built on burden and release. To gather weight, to carry it without faltering, and then to let it all flow out in a sudden burst of brilliance.

If the essence of the technique was burden and release, then her entire body had to obey that rhythm. Qi had to gather like water in a dam, then surge out in a single burst. But when Mingyao tried to follow this principle, her strength gave way—the weight of her spirit treasure dragged her down, nearly pinning her to the ground. The flow broke apart in an instant. How could she channel so much qi and still keep it steady?

She forced herself to breathe and think. One path was to lean into the heaviness itself, letting the weight guide her movements, then restore the flow when it came time to release. It would function, but the precision would be lacking. Another possibility was to use her breathing as the rhythm—inhale to fill the dantian, exhale to direct the release. But the pauses between breaths threatened to shatter the cycle. Micro-circulations came to mind as well, subtle loops of qi to smooth the flow, yet those too left gaps.

None of them alone were enough. The only way forward was to weave them together.

Mingyao set to work, determined to test each idea and weigh its flaws against her theory. Her first trial leaned on the weight of the treasure. The movement was clumsy, lacking finesse, but even so the result startled her—a passable attempt, far beyond her first collapse. It was proof that the path ahead was real, even if still rough.

"You seem to have grasped something. Keep working on it. I have other duties to attend to, but I will return tomorrow with the next part of the ritual."

The words lingered. Another ritual? Mingyao looked up to ask, but the girl was already gone, as if she had never been there at all.

Left in silence, Mingyao tightened her grip on the broom, the phrase echoing in her mind. Burden and release…

She decided to test her ideas one by one.

First, she leaned into the weight of her spirit treasure. Every arc pressed heavy, dragging through the air with a sense of gravity. For a moment, it felt right — her movements were grounded, the leaves obeyed the pull of the broom. But as she tried to quicken her pace for the final release, the heaviness betrayed her. The broom refused to turn sharply, the arcs clumsy and slow. Instead of a brilliant burst, her broom jammed into the earth and split the pile of leaves apart. She stumbled back, panting. "Too rigid. I should be controlling the weight—not the other way around."

Unwilling to give up, she tried another way. This time, she focused on her breathing. She inhaled deeply as she drew the broom inward, exhaled as she swept outward. Her qi rose and fell with the rhythm of her breath, pooling on the inhale, streaming on the exhale. At first it worked — the broom felt alive, each arc flowing like the wind. But soon, the gaps between breaths fought her. The leaves quivered in place, slipping through the pauses in her flow. When she tried to accelerate, her rhythm broke entirely. She coughed, her chest crushing. "No… breath alone is too weak. It leaves holes in the current."

Frustrated, she tried to groud herself with micro-circulations, tiny controlled flows of qi through her meridians. She pushed them through each limb, weaving them carefully to maintain constancy. The broom responded with precise arcs, smooth and meticulous. But soon her head spun. Maintaining so many small flows at once strained her mind. Worse, the qi scattered in too many directions — there was no surge, no brilliance, only a shallow ripple that barely disturbed the leaves. She collapsed onto her knees, sweat dripping down her brow. "Too complicated. I've lost the power behind the art."

Three methods. Three failures. She pressed her palms into the ground, gasping. The image of the maid's sweeping returned to her. Burden, flow, release. "I'm not supposed to just mimic, I have to make them one."

Rising again, she reset her stance. This time, she didn't pick one method over the others. She let the weight of the broom anchor her, gathering qi as if each heavy motion were the ocean pulling back its tide. She let her breath give rhythm, guiding her timing without forcing every motion to match. And beneath it all, she wove micro-circulations — not as her focus, but as an undercurrent, smoothing the flow so there were no gaps, no breaks, even between breaths.

The broom moved. Heavy arcs pulled the leaves inward, steady as the tide. Flowing strokes circled them around, no sudden jerks, no chaos. Then, on her exhale, she let everything merge — the pooled weight, the breath, the steady undercurrent — into a single burst.

Whoosh!

The qi exploded outward. The leaves, even those scattered far at the edges of the courtyard, leapt as if answering her command. They spiraled together, swept into a perfect mound at her feet. The broom hummed faintly in her hands approving of her effort.

Mingyao's chest rose and fell. Her body trembled, but her eyes shone. "Yes… this is it. Burden, flow, release. The tide that never stops."

She looked around to share her success, but the maid was already gone, leaving her only with the promise of tomorrow.

Mingyao exhaled softly, gazing at the neat pile of leaves. She had failed, stumbled, nearly broken herself because of that ritual — yet at last, she had grasped the essence hidden in a simple act of sweeping.

And then the cost came due.

Her qi thinned, her spirit treasure weighed down on her shoulders like a collapsing mountain. She collapsed onto her back, chest heaving. A single pile of leaves—and she was spent.

For a while she simply lay there, staring at the bright sky, sweat cooling against her skin, until her body slowly adjusted to the crushing burden. Forcing herself upright, she calmed her mind. If I cannot channel qi anymore, then I'll meditate. Understanding is cultivation too.

She folded into a meditative posture, letting her mind replay the maid's movements. Again and again, the sweeping arcs turned in her thoughts — burden, flow, release. Yet the longer she lingered, the clearer another element became: each motion followed a path. A cycle. East, south, west, north — the order of heaven and earth.

Four essences emerged within her heart: burden, flow, order, release.

She did not know if these were the true pillars of the sword art, but they were what she had grasped.

Her focus deepened — until a voice seeped into her consciousness.

At first it was soft and unintelligible, like the murmur of a dream. Then clearer, warmer, pulling her in until every word vibrated through her very bones.

"Would you like to become an immortal?" The voice was feminine, honeyed, curling in her ear.

Mingyao's eyes snapped open.

The sun was already dipping beyond the horizon. She had been meditating for the latter part of the day. Her qi felt richer, her cultivation faintly deeper. Around her, the courtyard was spotless—the leaves she should have gathered already gone. By whose hand, she couldn't guess.

Her pulse quickened. If the elder woman knew...

Pushing those thoughts aside, Mingyao returned to her quarters. She needed to test what she had learned.

The Moonblade's edge gleamed as she unsheathed it. She gripped the blade and began. First slowly, without qi, retracing the arcs until her body remembered them. Then faster, smoother, each repetition carving the rhythm into her bones. Again and again, until her muscles ached, until the movements felt like her own skin.

Only then did she dare to infuse qi.

At once, something strange happened. Her body grew lighter, as though the ground itself were slipping away beneath her feet. The sun sank, the moon rose, and with each passing moment of nightfall she drifted higher, her body almost floating. It felt less like a lightness skill and more like some unstable transformation—an art on the verge of becoming flight.

Confused, she tried to control the effect by circulating her qi as she had that morning. But the treasures resisted her efforts. The flow broke apart, and qi collapsed inside her channels. Blood filled her mouth, and she staggered.

She stopped fighting it, choosing instead to let the treasure show her its nature. Her body rose easily, light as a feather, and with a single leap she found herself soaring. At first it seemed like an advantage—until she realized she had no control. Her limbs moved like they belonged to someone else, her body drifting in the air as though submerged in water. Gravity's pull returned only faintly, a gentle tug, too weak to anchor her.

Being light as air was not the blessing she imagined.

She clenched the Moonblade tighter, refusing to give in. If weight could be turned into a tool, then so can lightness… I just have to find the way.

Her mind replayed the lessons of the morning. Burden. Flow. Release. If heaviness taught her patience, then lightness must teach her something... Maybe anchoring? She narrowed her eyes and began her first attempt.

She raised her blade and swept in a wide arc, forcing her body into motion. The motion carried her forward, stabilizing her against the drift. For a moment, she felt grounded by the sheer inertia of the swing — the air bent around her, leaves caught in her wake.

But as soon as she tried to stop, her body lurched sideways, spinning uncontrollably. The blade nearly slipped from her grasp. She flailed, tumbling through the air like a leaf in the wind.

Panting, she forced herself to still. "Momentum works, but without a tether, I'll always lose control."

She closed her eyes, letting her breath guide her qi. On the inhale, she allowed the strange lightness to fill her chest, making her body buoyant. On the exhale, she forced her qi downward, into her dantian and legs, as if exhaling gravity itself.

At once, she felt her body dip, as though a hidden weight had been strapped to her. She hovered lower, the ground no longer so far away.

Hope lit her face. But when her rhythm faltered, the effect vanished. She drifted upward again, coughing as her chest tightened from forcing too much qi with her breath.

"No… breathing alone can't keep me stable. It's too fragile."

Steeling her mind, she tried a different path. She wove tiny streams of qi through her meridians, concentrating them at her soles and palms. Instantly, her limbs grew heavy, dragging against the air. She stepped down — and though there was nothing beneath her, she felt a faint resistance, like stepping on invisible ripples.

Excited, she pressed again, this time pushing her palm downward pressing on a nonexistent stone. Her body responded, lowering slightly.

But the strain built quickly. Her head swam, sweat poured down her back. The countless circulations scattered, leaving her trembling. She collapsed midair, barely managing to land with a roll.

"Too many threads… I can't weave them all at once."

Her heart pounded, but Mingyao refused to give up. The maid's words echoed in her ears: "See the underlying essence."

She rose again, blade tightly gripped, breath calm. Just like with heaviness, she would not rely on one method — she would merge them.

She let the lightness lift her as she swung her blade in flowing arcs, using momentum to carry her like a tide. She guided her breathing so each exhale pressed her qi downward, tethering her to her center. And beneath it all, she allowed faint micro-circulations to stabilize the flow, subtle enough not to scatter her mind, but strong enough to fill the gaps between breaths.

The result was instant. Her body no longer drifted helplessly moving as if carried on invisible waves. Each step of her foot left a ripple in the air. Each arc of her blade gathered her qi like the sea drawing back its tide.

Then, with one sharp exhale, she released it all.

Whoosh!

Her qi burst outward, anchoring her body downward even as the Moonblade gleamed with a pale blue-silver light. She landed gracefully on the courtyard stones, leaves swirling into perfect patterns around her feet.

Her chest heaved, her limbs shook — but her eyes shone.

"Yes… this is it. Even lightness has its burden. Flow, tether, release… a tide that moves between sky and earth."

The night air wrapped around her, cool and silent. Somewhere in the shadows, she thought she heard the faintest laugh but when she turned, there was only the moonlight.

A delicate fragrance drifted past her. Faint, sweet, cleansing like rainwater sliding down orchid.

Mingyao turned.

The maid stood there once more, her white robes of the morning replaced by a deep twilight blue that shimmered.

Her sharp eyes lingered on Mingyao full with satisfaction.

"You learn quickly," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "Already drawing dusk from dawn. Perhaps I needn't return tomorrow after all."

"What do you mean?" Mingyao asked, her face carefully blank.

The maid studied her silently. Only after a long pause did she speak lazily. "I'm sure you already had your suspicions. The 'maid rituals' I mentioned earlier? They aren't just chores. They're hidden techniques. If you observe them closely, they can teach you far more than they seem."

Mingyao's heart stirred, but her voice stayed flat. "I had picked up on that. So… what you showed me this morning, that was a technique?"

"Yes." A faint smile touched the girl's lips. "But only half of the essence. And yet, you've grasped it so quickly."

"Half?"

The girl's gaze lingered on Mingyao sharpened as steel. Then she asked, softly, "Do you wish to learn the other half?"

Excitement flickered in Mingyao but was quickly chased by hesitation. Again the question rang. Why was Princess Taiping doing this? What lay behind this veil of chores and secret training? And again she had no answer.

Before she could form a reply, the maid had already moved.

The Moonblade vanished from Mingyao's grip.

"This is a fine treasure," the maid said lightly, weighing the blade as though testing its balance.

Mingyao froze. She hadn't even seen the movement, let alone reacted. Her skin prickled. She's faster than I can follow. Is she… a grandmaster? In Qin Kingdom, there were perhaps five, six such beings in total — the pinnacle of mortal power. But within this residence, her understanding of those numbers was crumbling piece by piece.

"Watch closely," the maid said, lifting the Moonblade. "This is the second half."

The courtyard hushed. Only the night wind stirred. Then — petals began to fall.

Pale orchids drifted from the darkness above, translucent blossoms cascading as if the heavens themselves had chosen to test her. They caught the moonlight as they descended, scattering like stars.

From within that dreamlike rain, the maid stepped forward. Her deep sapphire robes shimmered with faint silver. The Moonblade glowed in her hand, the glass edge reflecting the pale lantern of the sky.

"You've seen the weight of dawn," she murmured. "Now, witness the swiftness of dusk."

She stepped forward, her movement so light it barely disturbed the air.

"Dusk Step" 

Her motions were sharp and efficient. The blade flashed in clean arcs, each stroke precise, each cut decisive.

Orchids fell — yet none touched the ground. Before a petal could descend, the maid's blade swept it aside, guiding it into a spiral of flowing qi. The motion was seamless, not labored like the sweeping of leaves that morning.

"Where dawn demands patience and burden, dusk demands swift decisiveness."

The maid's arm curved, the Moonblade gliding in a wide sweep.

"Twilight Dissolution" 

Qi rippled outward. Dozens of flowers bent into her wake, drawn into a neat spiral of energy. Their petals scattered yet remained bound within her rhythm.

What had been sharp and distinct now unraveled. The flowers shredded as though one stroke had become a thousand, their outlines blurring until even the petals lost form. They drifted down as motes of blue light, dissolving before they touched stone.

"Dusk does not wait," the maid said, her voice steady. "Gather what you can before all is lost."

Her next strike came so swiftly Mingyao almost missed it.

"Silent Horizon Slash"

The blade flickered, almost invisible. A single orchid drifted astray at the edge of the courtyard. Before Mingyao's eyes could follow, it was cleaved from the air.

A chill prickled across her skin. She hadn't even seen the stroke.

At last, the maid lifted the Moonblade skyward, her motion slow but directed.

"Veil of the Last Ray"

She let the gathered energy spiral outward. The threads of qi that had moments ago trembled violently now softened, folding gracefully into the shape of orchids once more. Only now they were pale and translucent, each petal laced with frost. They spiraled downward in silence, as if time itself had slowed, until they touched the ground and shattered like crystal snow. The courtyard became a pale carpet of frozen blossoms, the night air filled with the faint scent of orchids and cold rain.

When the last petal fell, the maid lowered the Moonblade. Its blade hummed faintly, restrained qi reluctant to still itself.

"This is dusk," she said softly, her voice quieter. "Where dawn endures and releases, dusk collects and resolves. Both are halves of the same cycle. One gathers weight. The other clears it away.

Her eyes turned to Mingyao, luminous in the moonlight.

"Have you learned them?"

Mingyao swallowed, her chest tight. The elegance, the ferocity — if this was what a maid could do, what of the princess's soldiers? Were all these so-called rituals veiled arts of this level?

Her throat felt dry. At last, she bowed her head slightly."Senior…"

The maid tilted her chin. "Lanhua."

"Senior Lanhua…" Mingyao said softly. "Is every maid here as skilled as you?"

Lanhua's lips quirked faintly. "No. Some are strong. Others… weak. But I am the best."

"The best…" Mingyao hesitated. "Then the rituals you spoke of… they're all hidden ways to cultivate techniques?"

"Yes," Lanhua said simply. "The princess ensured it."

Mingyao hesitated, then asked the question that weighed on her heart. "To what end?"

Lanhua's eyes sharpened, as if she had been waiting for it. She drew a breath before answering."She is searching."

Mingyao's brows knit. "Searching? For what?"

"For disciples." The word left Lanhua's mouth smoothly.

Mingyao's breath hitched. "Disciples?"

"Tell me," Lanhua said, her eyes drifting toward the moon, "do you believe in immortality?"

Mingyao's heart jolted. She gave a small, bitter laugh. "Immortality? How many fools have died chasing such hubris? Don't tell me you—"

"Yes." Lanhua's voice cut through her protest. "The princess seeks disciples to whom she may grant that very path."

"You must be joking."

"Did you not notice how young she looks?"

Mingyao froze. Her mind returned to her aunt—the Princess Taiping. By age, she should be well into her forties. Yet her face, her form, had seemed no older than Mingyao herself.

"…She is an immortal, then?"

"Not yet," Lanhua replied. "But she is a cultivator. As am I." She turned her gaze back to Mingyao, her voice inviting. "Would you like to be one as well?"