Chapter 22: My Dorm Room (1)
The boys' wing of the academy looked just like he remembered—long hallways with shiny bannisters you could slide your hand along without a snag, heavy curtains hanging straight with the Blackstar crest sewn in silver thread, and lanterns spaced out even, giving off that steady, warm light that made everything feel a little less cold. The smell hit him first as he stepped over the threshold: old wood mixed with fresh wax from the floors, that clean, everyday scent that said "home" to anyone who'd ever lived in a big place like this. But for Lucian, it landed different—a small, sharp twist in his gut, the kind that sneaks up when something too familiar catches you off guard, folding old hurts over themselves until they feel real again.
'This is where it began,' he thought, pausing just inside the door, his hand still on the knob like it could hold the moment back. 'This dorm, this bed, these hallways—this was the first spot of my suffering in my first transmigration.'
He let his fingers slip off the brass, cool and smooth under his skin, and took a step in. Sun from the window at the end of the hall caught the side of his face, hitting the silver streak at his temple and breaking it into little sharp bits of light. For a second, it pulled him back to the diary he'd kept in his second life: pages full of notes on who to watch out for, spells that worked best at dawn, rough maps of the academy drawn on scrap paper, names of kids who mattered, timings of big events, the little tricks of the game that could save your skin. He'd hauled that notebook around like it was his lucky charm through one full go-around, scribbling in it late at night when sleep wouldn't come.
'Funny,' he said to himself low, pushing the door open all the way with his shoulder. 'No diary this time. No big plans. No sneaky moves. I don't plan to get mixed up in plots. I will just watch. And maybe write verses—old lessons stick with a guy even when his memory is a mess of old cuts.'
The room smelled a bit of lavender from the fresh sheets and ink from the desk set—nothing fancy, just the plain stuff they gave everyone. His bed sat there neat and simple, blankets tucked tight like a soldier's bunk. A desk by the window with a chair pushed in straight, a shelf half-empty waiting for books he didn't own yet but could guess what they'd say. He dropped his bag on the floor with a soft thump and sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide like he was trying to take up more space, fill the empty feeling that had followed him through lifetimes.
'Still,' he thought, his eyes going to the academy crest stitched into the curtains—heavy blue fabric that blocked out most of the light but let a little sneak through at the edges—'I could work on my Class Level. I hit Fifth Class a few weeks back. Two months. Not bad for a guy who lost his heavenly core twice.'
He curled his fingers into his palm slow, feeling the pull of muscle and bone, and started talking to himself in that careful way he'd picked up—straight, no frills, like explaining to a friend who needed to get it right the first time.
'Mana here is like air,' he said out loud, letting the words bounce off the walls like he was teaching a lesson to the empty room. 'It's everywhere—easy to breathe, always around. It doesn't ask for blood or big risks to get better. In my third life, Qi was a tough river. You had to dig channels, build walls, fight for every bit to push it higher. Here, you just pull it in, and the world hands it over.'
He shut his eyes and brought it back step by step, in the plain, steady way he'd taught himself to feel things again—the order of how he'd built a core inside himself, simple as stacking stones but deep as roots.
'Step one: find the lower dantian,' he whispered, the words coming out even, like reading from a book he knew by heart. 'Not by poking around—by meaning it. The lower dantian is that spot below your belly button, where your body keeps its calm. Sit down. Let your middle loosen. Picture the empty space. Push all the busy thoughts up in your chest down low, let them sink into your gut.'
He got his legs crossed on the bed right then, like practicing for real—back straight but not stiff, shoulders down easy. He breathed in the way he'd shown others back in his third life—soft through the nose, long and patient, no rush.
'Step two: make the baby core—the starting nucleus. Don't push hard. Pull in the air's mana with your breath, but keep your head clear. Send the in-breath down the front line until you feel a cool spot build in the empty place. That's plain mana. Squeeze it slow with your tongue pressing the roof of your mouth as you close off the bottom gate.'
His breath matched up with the words—slow, even pulls. Outside the window, the academy's gardens made soft sounds: kids walking by, leaves rustling light. Inside, he was folding the air into a small, bright ball, step by careful step.
'Squeezing is the tricky part,' he said, opening one eye to watch the sun move slow across the floor. 'If you go too fast, junk builds up. Your body says no and the core breaks—big pain, bad kickback. I learned that rough in my third life. So I added cleaning it while squeezing.'
He laid out the cleaning part next, his voice steady, like telling a story that ended okay.
'Breath circle way—my take on the small loop path, made for mana. Breathe in to gather, but on the out, send it not away but up your back line to the top of your head. Picture the mana going in a loop: lower dantian up the back to the top, then down the front back to lower dantian. Each go-around cleans it. At the top, your mind's spark burns off the bad stuff—picture the smoke getting thin, dark bits dropping away into the ground under you. Do the loops slow; speed up only when the core gets hard and takes more.'
He stopped, feeling the old habit kick in under his ribs—a leftover from nights teaching Seoryeon the breathing tricks until they felt like talking without words.
'The main thing is the build-up,' he said. 'Never hurry the loop speed. Start at one breath every sixteen heartbeats. Drop to twelve, then eight. Each drop needs calmer focus and cooler head. The core gets warm as it holds more mana. Cool that by making the out-breath longer—three parts out, one in. That pushes out the junk and stops overload. If the core turns from silver to oily black, you halt and clean—cold water on the belly, picture ice—then start over lower.'
He ran a hand through his hair, the move automatic, then picked up again.
'Once the core packs tight, you make it denser: small squeezes in the lower belly, like pulling a string tight in the dark. These squeezes tie the mana into your body's habit—the body learns to keep the power without hurting itself. With the inside strong, the innate core turns into a storage spot. From there, you pull in the air's mana slow and turn it into stuff you can use. I call this 'Mana Cultivation'—a name that sounds plain, but it's put together from parts. Lower dantian ways from my third life, loop from old sitting practices, and the easy air mana from this world.'
A small smile tugged at his mouth—sour, like tasting something bittersweet.
'I'm the first to mix it on purpose,' he admitted. 'Not by dying over and over like some old wise guy, but by way of remembering what went wrong and fixing it. It's not real forever-life. It's just staying alive better. Fifth Class Level is what it got me. The middle part—tough enough to take hits from cult mana, bendy enough to borrow someone else's power for a bit. That's why I made it through the raid.'
He thought about pushing harder for a second.
'Should I go up now? No. Hurry and the core gets weak. This place likes different things to grow: killing beasts, taking down bad guys, sucking up tied mana. That gives fast jumps. My way is slow build and clean-up. For now, Fifth Class middle stage is a good coat. I'll make it stronger, not bust it open just to look big.'
He opened his eyes and let the room come back: the desk waiting empty, the chair pushed in neat, the one window with its little look at the fountain outside. A quiet bit of pride snuck in then.
'Knowing stuff beat luck every time. In my second life, I died chasing fate too hard. Here, I make it because I learned how to breathe right.'
He got up, going to the desk where he pulled a sheet of paper from his bag and grabbed a pen. He didn't need the notebook now to remember names, but writing it down helped settle him. He wouldn't map out tricks this time; he'd put down the lessons Seoryeon had slipped into his hand—lines and poems that eased hurt.
'Poems,' he said out loud, dipping the pen in ink. 'Breath is the beat for the soul. My Master taught this. Seoryeon taught gentle. I won't act like I can fix the world. I will build a small spot of words where memory can light a candle.'
He wrote slow: lines about cold and safe spots, a short pair that was just for the woman whose name still warmed him when nothing else did.
Then, with ink still wet on his fingers, he folded the paper and slid it into a drawer he'd lock at night. His thing. No big shows, no watchers.
'The dorm just like I remember in my first transmigration, I should choose this before,' he thought, picking up his coat. 'A quiet room, a single bed. No roommates to wake me with their kid noise. No late talks about bravery. Here, I sleep one life at a time.'
He went by the window one more time, eyes on the academy's towers far off, like teeth in the dark. The way ahead wasn't a run; it was breathing even and building slow.
'Watch. Learn. Get ready. Not big saves. Not god hunts. And yet—if the Demon God's shadow walks these paths, I will do more than watch. But not now. Not until I know what hides behind the dark fire.'
He blew on the ink till it dried and shut the drawer. Then, with the same careful calm he'd used to build the core low in his belly, he crossed the room and closed the door behind him.
The dorm hallway had more noise now as kids came back from morning classes, their voices soft and normal—talking about lunch or who said what in roll call. Lucian's steps were a small beat against it, even and no hurry. He turned the key to his solo room, seeing the small space as a safe spot for a guy who only wanted to breathe and write.
He sat by the small window facing the courtyard, watching the academy go by like a slow wave. Outside, kids laughed—a bright, easy sound that, for now, he let wash over him without dragging him in.
'One day,' he thought, as the light started to turn orange in the far towers, 'I will look for the Demon God's trace. For now, I grow roots. The world may shake, but a guy with a hidden core can stand through any winter.'
He laid his head back on the pillow and, for the first time in many mornings, closed his eyes without clenching his hands into the cold. The breathing circle he'd practiced earlier moved steady through him—down, up, across—the loop of staying alive. Outside, the academy's lamps blinked like patient stars. Inside, the new innate core pulsed quiet like a single coal in a long night.
He would not hurry to go higher. He would not chase quick fixes. He would write poems, build mana, and, when it came time, he would stand.
But this time, in the quiet of a single dorm, Lucian allowed himself a small, risky thing: the okay to just be still.