The night was at its zenith. The moon, a cold and watchful eye, hung high above the Xiao Clan compound, casting long, silvery shadows across the tiled roofs. The world was asleep, wrapped in the heavy silence of the Hour of the Rat.
Inside the infirmary room, Yoriichi Tsugikuni lay perfectly still.
His breathing was shallow, rhythmic, and almost imperceptible. Even in deep sleep, the Selfless State remained passively active, a thin, transparent veil of awareness that monitored the perimeter of the room like a radar.
But deep within the microcosm of his body, a transformation was taking place—one that he had not consciously commanded, but one that his body, desperate for power, had initiated on its own.
The High-Tier 1 Jade Marrow Pill he had consumed earlier had fully dissolved. Its medicinal efficacy, guided by Yoriichi's meditation earlier that evening, had saturated his bones and marrow, repairing the fractures. But this was a pill meant for rich, energetic cultivators. There was a surplus—a warm, viscous river of leftover energy that had nowhere else to go.
Slowly, like a tide rising in the dark, this warm energy began to move.
It flowed from his marrow into his meridians. It sought out the dense, compressed Dou Qi he had cultivated through Total Concentration Breathing. The mixture became volatile, expansive, and powerful.
It rushed to his nose, his mouth, his ears. It flooded the twelve primary meridians, pushing against the invisible barriers of his cultivation rank.
Thump. Thump.
His heart rate increased slightly. The blood in his veins roared like a distant waterfall.
Usually, a breakthrough required conscious effort. A cultivator had to sit in the lotus position, guide the Qi with their mind, and batter down the walls of the next stage with brute force. But Yoriichi's body was different. His pathways were already forged wide and elastic by the intense pressure of his breathing technique. The barrier between the 8th Star and the 9th Star of Dou Zhi Qi was paper-thin.
CRACK.
A sound, audible only to the soul, echoed inside him.
The warm flood breached the dam. The Dou Qi in his body surged, doubling in volume and density instantly. The sensation was euphoric—like a dry riverbed suddenly filling with fresh, thundering rain. The milky white gas of the Dou Disciple stage thickened, becoming almost liquid in its concentration.
An hour passed in this state of flux. The energy circled his body, stabilizing, hardening his skin, refining his muscles, and finally settling into the Qi Cyclone forming in his lower abdomen.
Yoriichi's eyes snapped open.
There was no drowsiness. He was instantly, terrifyingly awake.
"Something has changed," his instinct whispered, sharp as a blade.
He sat up. The movement was fluid, weightless. The heavy, grinding pain that had plagued him for days—the ache in his ribs, the throb in his shin—was gone. Erased.
He looked at his hands. Even in the darkness, he could see a faint, milky-white glow emanating from his skin. It wasn't the pale light of a ghost, but the vibrant, energetic aura of a cultivator reaching the peak of the initial stage.
He crossed his legs and closed his eyes, turning his perception inward.
"The meridians... they are humming."
He felt the Qi pulsing through him. It was no longer a trickle; it was a stream. The milky white energy was dense, compacted by his breathing technique into a substance that felt heavier than lead but flowed like water.
"9th Star Dou Zhi Qi," Yoriichi realized, a flicker of surprise touching his calm mind. "I broke through in my sleep. The pill, combined with the extreme depletion and recovery from the Smithing Hall... my body adapted by expanding its capacity."
He clenched his fist. The air popped audibly in his palm, compressed by the sheer speed of his grip. He felt stronger. Lighter. The vessel that was Xiao Ning was finally beginning to catch up to the soul of Yoriichi.
He slid off the bed. His feet touched the floor, and he felt a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. The gravity of the world seemed to have lessened by half.
"I need to test this," he decided. "The room is too small. I feel... confined."
He opened the door to the veranda. The cool night air hit his face, carrying the scent of jasmine and damp earth.
He glanced to the side. There, resting on a small wooden bench outside his door, was a lacquered tray covered with a cloth.
Yoriichi paused. He lifted the cloth. Underneath was a bowl of cold but high-quality braised fish, rice, and a small jar of wine. Beside it lay a piece of paper.
He picked it up. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, and aggressive—exactly like the person who wrote it.
"To my dear, idiot brother,
I know you act tough, but you need to eat to heal. If you wake up hungry, shove this in your face. I didn't have the mood to wake you up when you were sleeping like a log. Don't thank me. Just get better.
— From your beautiful, genius sister."