028. DON'T MIND ME

“Please, Ming Shi, don’t mind me,” Xiaoye said. “I will just practice my beginner’s manual while you practice yours. Like you, I am being truly challenged by the basics of my own Approved Path.”

She summoned a manual from her storage bag and held it up—Clear Water Path: Beginner’s Manual.

Placing the manual on the ground, she opened it to the first page. Then, she raised her palms. “The first exercise is very difficult for me.”

Water materialized from thin air, forming spheres that orbited her hands. They flash froze into crystals, sublimated to steam, then reformed as liquid in an endless cycle.

Here we go again, thought Ming Shi, as déjà vu kicked in. That’s Tasteful Drops of Eternal Contemplation. This is starting to feel like a series of pop quizzes: spot the hidden advanced cultivation.

“I need more practice,” said Xiaoye. “My transitions are not smooth.”

Her transitions were flawless.

“Let me attempt the moving meditation on page three of my Clear Water Path: Beginner’s Manual.” Xiaoye flicked her fingers and streams of water arced up from their tips. As she elegantly rotated her wrists, the streams swirled around her in long, undulating ribbons.

Okay. This one’s for beginners, thought Ming Shi, sighing. If you’re beginning at Foundation Establishment, that is.

 “Excuse my messy execution,” she said. “I’m still working on control.”

She swept her arms in a winding pattern and the streams of water froze in the air, forming the character for:

CONTROL

What is she doing?  thought Ming Shi. Is she hiding her cultivation? Not hiding her cultivation? Trying to decide? Can we sit down and agree on what we’re pretending to know and not know about each other’s cultivation backgrounds?

“Do proceed with your own beginner exercises, Ming Shi,” said Xiaoye. “If you need more space, would you like me to move further away?”

“No, no, it’s totally fine,” said Ming Shi. “Don’t let me distract you.”

Xiaoye smiled and the streams of water forming one character morphed into two:

OF COURSE

Her smile was so knowing, so conspiratorial, that it might as well have been a wink from Mrs. Lin.

Ming Shi was certain there was some misunderstanding between them. It was probably eating popcorn and enjoying the show.

Figure it out later. For now, don’t waste the qi-boost from Chang’s congee.

He returned his focus to Exercise One: light flame to heat stove.

Inhaling deeply, Ming Shi tried to settle into practice. It smelled like the seaside in the warehouse. When he closed his eyes, Ming Shi could almost hear the rush of waves and the cry of gulls.

But that was all in his mind.

In truth, the warehouse was preternaturally quiet. The space was large and empty, yet there were no echoes. Sounds were swallowed as soon as they were made, clipped cleanly. It was the residual spirit-salt qi in the warehouse that was causing this.

Ming Shi was not unfamiliar with such an atmosphere. He’d regularly trained under similar conditions as Liu Baozi. The first time he’d been just a child …

“… Baozi,” said his uncle, “don’t you dare lick that wall.”

He was ten and had just been allowed into his uncle’s meditation Kitchen.

“Sorry, Uncle,” said Liu Baozi. “I just wanted a taste. Why do the walls of this Kitchen feel so salty?”

“Because they’re made of Rank Eight spirit-salt blocks,” said his uncle. He took up a forward-lunge stance before a bamboo steamer on a blazing stove and began to flow through a movement meditation. Steam swirled around him as he struck impressive martial poses, his qi flashing under his skin as it cycled through him.

“Why?” asked Liu Baozi.

“To make things harder,” said his uncle.

“Why?” asked Liu Baozi.

“To make us stronger.”

“How?” asked Liu Baozi.

“The yin nature of salt has a dampening effect on qi-cycles. Remember, stillness is yin. Movement is yang. Yin and yang act in opposition and yet give rise to one another.”

His uncle swept his arms in a circle over his head, then struck forward with his palms. The bamboo steamer shuddered and billowed out crimson mist.

“The yin pressure of the salt-qi forces me to put more qi behind my technique when I cultivate, to overcome the yin stillness. As a result, my qi becomes conditioned to move in a more yang, aggressive manner. So if I encounter another chef who is also Early Core Formation and we perform the same technique, I will be able to do so more swiftly and strongly, and triumph.”

With a high, spinning kick, the lid flew off the bamboo steamer, revealing eight prawn dumplings that had an iridescent red sheen.

“Doesn’t the food you make in this Kitchen come out too salty, though?” asked Liu Baozi.

“It doesn’t matter,” said his uncle.

“I feel like it does?” said Liu Baozi, sniffing the air. He pulled a face. “Bleh.”

“Nephew,” said his uncle, “I let you in under the condition that you stayed quiet, watched, and learned. You are doing none of those things.”

“Sorry, Uncle,” said Liu Baozi. “I’ll keep quiet and won’t lick the walls. You carry on. Don’t mind me.”

His uncle sighed with manifest relief and returned to his movement meditation.

“Uncle?” said Liu Baozi, after two and a half breaths.

“… What?” said his uncle, one eyelid twitching.

“Why don’t you let anyone in this Kitchen?”

“Because a chef is vulnerable to attack when meditating. That is also why many meditation Kitchens are encased in salt-qi. It makes it that much harder for external qi to penetrate.”

“Why did you let me in then?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” said his uncle, “and I’d rather keep you in my line of sight than be caught unawares. Now for Heaven’s sake, sit in front of that stove over there and do the meditation exercises Master Chang gave you.”

“Chang Luosuo is a scam artist, Uncle.”

“He is not a scam artist. He is a highly respected meditation master.”

“He’s a scam artist. Meditation is a con he made up to justify his employment. My qi cycles all by itself! I don’t see why I need to sit down and think about it.”

“Liu Baozi,” his uncle ground out, “you are courting death.”

Well, thanks, Uncle, thought Ming Shi, flinching slightly at the memory. You didn’t have to go this far to prove you were right.

He shoved his memories into a far, dark corner of his mind before he could dwell on them further.

No thoughts, just cultivation.

All in, this warehouse was really an ideal place to cultivate, with its beginner-friendly levels of fading salt-qi. Just enough to heighten your focus while keeping out distractions.

Draw from the dantian, Ming Shi advised himself. Touch the stove with your qi. Feel the flow. Or something. I hope.

As Liu Baozi, his qi had just done whatever he felt it should be doing. He’d never had to guide it this consciously.

Master Chang would feel so vindicated right now. This is karma for that time I said, to his face, “Those who can cultivate, cook. Those who can’t cook invent foundational mindfulness exercises to make everyone else miserable.”

With a mental face-slap to his former incarnation, Ming Shi reached for his dantian. The qi was there—he could feel it, a content, sleepy ball of warmth beneath his navel.

He tried visualizing the path from his dantian to his hands. In theory, the qi should flow up through his central meridian, branch at the solar plexus, travel along his arms and emerge from his palms. Right?

His qi moved about two finger widths before hitting the first broken meridians. It felt like stepping on a shard of glass hidden in a carpet: one moment it was all soft, warm, relaxed comfort, and the next, sharp, unexpected pain.

He pushed harder. The pain spread. Now it felt like stepping on multiple shards of glass while someone poured lemon juice on the wounds.

Maybe if I go slower?

He tried easing his qi forward gently, like threading a needle. The broken edges of his meridians scraped against the energy flow. His qi recoiled, racing back to his dantian like a startled rabbit diving for its burrow.

Maybe faster?

He tried forcing it through quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

Oh, shit!

His fingertips heated! It was just a flash, but still, they’d heated and glowed a little.

Unfortunately, the accompanying pain was so acute he lost all sense of himself. When he came to again, he found himself bent forward, gasping, while his meridians cramped and convulsed.

He gritted his teeth and tried again. This time he went even more gently, barely a brush of force to nudge the pooled energy. His meridians responded with the feeling of whiplash—jerking forward, then slamming back, leaving him winded, reeling and aching sharply.

His qi wasn’t even moving now. It sat there in his dantian like a cat that knew you wanted it to come but had decided to clean its paws instead, occasionally flicking its tail just to prove it had heard you.

I’m comfortable, it seemed to say. Go away. The paths you suggest do not entice me. Horrible. I refuse.

Fine. Maybe if he approached from a different angle—

This time it felt like walking straight into a wall, a full body blow with particular emphasis on the part of him that made impact first: his nose.

He felt something warm dribble down his lip.

Am I … hang on … Is my nose bleeding?

A red droplet spattered onto his lap.

Oh, fabulous. This is so promising.

In his dantian, his qi shifted and then nestled back into a sort of warm, nourished food coma. The boost from Chang’s energy was still there. He just had to figure out how to use it.

Unfortunately, every attempt just created new ways to suffer. He lost track of time, grasping, pushing and pulling at his spiritual energy to no avail. His qi only retracted further into his dantian, offended by his attempts at diplomacy. The more he reached for it, the more it burrowed itself away, balling up even more tightly, and the more his meridians punished him for trying. His spiritual anatomy had entered into a spite-based relationship with itself, meridians versus dantian, with his consciousness caught in the middle trying to bridge the two.

As if this vicious cycle wasn’t enough, there was also the matter of his training partner.

It was impossible to not be at least a little bit bothered as Xiaoye performed increasingly advanced techniques while narrating how badly she was doing them.

“My balance is off,” she said while standing on one pointed foot like a ballerina, creating a water tornado with her pinky finger.

“My breathing’s all wrong,” she sighed while making rain fall upward.

“My accuracy—I might as well be blind,” she lamented, levitating a teapot that spouted a dark, fragrant brew in a smooth arc, filling a cup  twenty feet away.

“Fellow Daoist Xiaoye,” said Ming Shi at last, panting with exhaustion. From the way the light had changed, he could tell it was already early evening. Every part of Ming Shi that could ache had formed a union and gone on strike to march down Soreness Street. His sweaty temples pounded from the repeated recoil of his angry meridians along with the pure fleshly tension migraine that resulted from squinting at his stove. His shoulders had locked into a hunch that had him looking like a gargoyle. His lower back had opinions about his posture, and those opinions were uniformly negative.

The compounded spiritual aftermath of each attempt rounded out his package of misery. Each attempt to move his qi had left behind a hollow sensation, as if someone had been scooping out his insides with a melon baller.

Most chefs not named Ming Shi would have stopped five minutes in. But Ming Shi was Ming Shi. He was a man who had no interest in things like vengeance or personal grudges—until it came to cooking-related problems. Then he got a little crazy about not letting things go. The more something stumped him, the more he’d go after it.

The boost from Chang’s congee was fading. What had been a warm surge of borrowed vitality was now just the memory of energy, leaving him more aware of his deficits than before.

There was only a little boost left. He had to use it wisely.

“Yes?” said Xiaoye.

“The moves you’re doing are all cultivation techniques for Early Foundation Establishment,” said Ming Shi. He paused, swallowing gingerly. He’d bit the inside of his cheek during one particularly awful attempt, and now talking was making the wound scrape against his teeth. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”