Adventure of Zhāng Wújì 1

Zhāng Wújì steps deeper into the library hall. The shelves tower above him, packed with jade slips, bamboo scrolls, and brittle silk pages older than any village tale he has heard.

His fingers brush across cold jade, then stop on a plain manual bound in faded grey cloth. No gold trim, no warning seal, just a simple title in ancient script.

As he opens it, a thin pulse of warmth passes through his palms. The first pages are not a grand secret art, but a breathing method, a foundation for sensing qi and drawing it inward.

The Stone Monument hums once from the central hall, as if approving. Dust trembles from the shelves. Somewhere deeper in the inheritance, sealed doors remain silent, waiting.

Zhāng Wújì looks from the manual to the endless rows of records and weapons. This is no treasure he can spend at a market. It is the first step toward strength, the only road that can turn a starving orphan into someone the world must notice.

Zhāng Wújì closes the manual and rises from the aisle. He scans the hall, then pads toward a low stone bench tucked between two shelves, where the lamps throw a steady pool of light.

He lowers himself onto the bench and opens the cloth-bound pages again. The stone feels cool and level beneath him, steadier than the floor, steadier than his aching legs.

The first lines settle into his mind as he traces them with his eyes, matching breath to phrase, pause to pause.

A faint pressure gathers in his chest, not pain, not quite warmth, just the feeling that the words are beginning to answer him.

Across the hall, the black monument gives no speech, only a soft, distant hum that seems to keep time with his breathing.

Zhāng Wújì straightens a little on the bench, manual open in both hands, while one difficult line remains unclear and waits for him to choose whether to puzzle it out or keep reading.

The last stubborn line snaps into place. The phrasing is plain now, and the sequence beneath it opens cleanly, breath by breath.

He moves his attention through the manual again, and the whole passage reads together at once, no longer a wall of odd terms but a usable method.

With a slow inhale, the air feels thinner in his chest and heavier in his dantian, then settles there as if the words have given it a place to rest.

The black monument answers with a low, approving hum, its dim afterlight briefly brightening along the carved seams.

Zhāng Wújì lowers the manual a fraction, gaze fixed on the page, as the first complete breathing formula is no longer hidden from him.

The hall remains still, but the lesson now sits in his hands, ready for the next breath.