The gray of the dull stone walls vanished. The white mist that glowed from the light of the Spirit Stones in the corners of the room was so thick that Hao couldn’t see his hand if he raised it in front of his face. He glimpsed the Yin and Yang of the Day-Night Amethyst. The World Energy cracked with golds and swirled with purple, one harsh, angular, fast, the other slow, methodical, and smooth.

  He closed his eyes. The inside of the Spirit-Holding bag, coaxing him with the mysterious in its depths. It was all just in his mind. But the sound of it was satisfying, like a scroll uncrumpling back to its original form. Pop! It gave one last noise, which made him seek inside for just a moment, so that he could almost see more than just shape and form. In a way, he could, but it wasn’t his eyes looking.

  Hao didn’t give it more than one second. His head ached dully from the beating it received moments before. Everything inside the bag was floating freely, trying to make a mess and mix as it had before, without the weight of the World Energy. It was slow, sinking as if to land lightly. Nothing stood out, other than the curved wall and what he already knew was there. No, a few things were in Spirit Stone glittering down at the bottom…

  Breathe… Hao felt pressure on his chest. He had held his initial exhale long enough; his body had long been cleared of stagnant air. It was time to breathe in the concoction of energy outside.

  As he forgot the world outside the bag, Hao pulled his mind out. Alone in the abyss that rests at the base of his throat, the void of his meditation, he breathed in, and colors swam as World Energy close to Qi boiled and froze and pricked at his skin.

  He focused down, further—further, until his awareness of his physical self, his breath, and bones, made every bump, bruise, and cut ever received feel fresh. His breath moved like a stream through his entire body.

  Hao instantly launched into Cultivation. It was something he had done hundreds of times, but had yet to master. Light suffused the void. It was like the cave before, but clearer and defined with each slow breath he took. Pillars of silver-reds and golden yellows floated up. The dark colors did the opposite, sinking and suffusing, becoming globules of perfect darkness with a warping outline of purple that glowed with a shy light.

  Centered between them was a cloud. A cloud of the Pure raw World Energy, untouched by the Mortal World, exists within the bag, with a trickle of the five elements, yet not showing any of their attributes. It swirled in on itself madly. Back and forth it drifted up towards the Yang, back down on itself, looping down towards the Yin, back up, spinning in its center.

  Hao breathed out, and they shook. What was angular became bent, golden pillars tilting, what was smooth became jagged, purple orbs became spiked. The cloud was stable and stayed unchanged.

  He breathed back in, more gathered, seeking any orifice in his body they could find, breaking through his pores and gathering under his skin in depths he had yet to understand.

  Pillars grew taller, sharper, with golden tips like spears of sunlight. The globs became dark sunless moons of rich color, hard to look at and perceive, on which feet could stand steady, unwavering.

  Hao waited until he felt like he was about to burst. Skin hot, bones cold, he felt his vessels would burst and eardrums shatter. He let out a slow breath and pulled down on the Energies gathered in his body.

  The breath that escaped his lips had an acrid taste. He could imagine the impurities leaving him once again, as they were replaced, the pain of the process made him forget the putrid sting on his palate. For a moment, the taste reminded him of Yao, her light blue shawl, and curved sword. The image of her vanished as fast as it appeared.

  All the World Energy in his body burst, like a wave that climbed over his head, rushing down, color disappearing from the void in his mind as a web of sensation spun through his body. The spider that spun the web had countless sharp legs.

  Tickticktick. Countless tiny needles poked everywhere the web grew, testing his focus while reminding him what pain was. It was nostalgic. Not every breakthrough was as kind and slow as his Seventh Layer, which took months. Most of them were like this. The culmination of everything he gathered, pouring into his existence.

  Hao tried to direct it, his breaths deep and long. As he pulled in new energies, the Yin and Yang found their own way, resisting his pull.

  The Yin burrowed into his bones. It gathered in his marrow, nourishing his body and blood, and forcing up a warm, vibrant liquid from his body. Vital Qi.

  Yang moved like a surgical knife. Carving along his Qi Channels like normal World Energy would, but with vicious precision until it reached his forming Vital Core. The Vital Qi dragged along, changing the Qi channels to something more.

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  Hao completed another cycle of breaths. The energy in the cave felt thin, and he took most of it, but some escaped naturally, flowing through stone and reaching the rest of the world, sinking, suffusing, assimilating. He caught the last of it. His deepest breath yet, Channels traveling along his meridian paths widening further as a small ethereal ball began to take shape under his belly button.

  The end of his Cultivation was close at hand. The void of his mind during meditation revealed a small misshapen golden bead. Hao recognized it as the initial Vital core trying to form. Some Yang remained in his head while Yin settled near his heart. Any remaining white World Energy flowed into that small bead, creating dispersed, faint clouds.

  Without a doubt, Hao touched the Eighth Stage. Slowly, his cultivation became stable, as if the energy was going to sleep inside of him. When the last wisp of energy went still, he opened his eyes.

  *

  Hao let his five senses, once again heightened, adjust after a breakthrough. The sound of centipedes and worms moving in soft dirt between stones, the scent of perfumes nearly shrouded by rock dust. That group must have come down this way. Curiosity or greed? No matter. They will leave before I’m done. He could hear the taps and shuffles of small feet. The scraping of what he assumed was their pickaxe made his eardrums vibrate. Slowly, the volume faded, softer and quieter.

  Hao let out a sigh, exercising the tiny amount of control he had over his senses, then threw his mind back into the Spirit-Holding bag. He hoped there was a second hidden gift the Second Elder had left behind.

  He felt a slight sense of dismay. It was not as bad as he expected, but the properties of the bag itself had changed. Very few things were floating freely. In the past, when there was no World Energy inside the isolated space, there was a lack of gravity, and everything was lighter. Yet now, nearly everything has sunk to the bottom.

  It was a minor mess, nothing broken, but dirt had scattered around, perhaps a few roots of the plants he had been growing inside felt bent out of shape. The World Energy coming off the plants was moving differently. The bag was directing the World Energy and assimilating it; only a small part of what was produced remained.

  Outside the bag, Hao touched the ruby. The red gemstone on the lips of the bag was cold to the touch. “The bag is taking some on its own?” His thoughts echoed inside the bag, giving him a minor fright. “The Second Elder would be the best to ask if I get a chance…” The sound echoed. His hands moved to cover his ears, but it didn’t do anything; the sound was not coming from outside, where it could touch his ears.

  Hao silenced his thoughts and tried to keep them suppressed until he finished cleaning what he could. He did a quick search. Floating his presence down to the bottom of the bag, sending his senses along the floor.

  The surface he perceived would be hard to call flat, the opposite of what he expected from the space inside the Spirit-Holding bag. White spirit stones scattered around. Decorate pill bottles, only one was Hao’s, all of them were empty, with no cork or stopper. Hao took one out just to check the scent. Still fragrant, almost alluring.

  Jewelry, not a lot. A single ring, plain with nothing to it, he couldn’t tell its color. The rest were decorations for the wrist and ears; they didn’t have much jewelry on the Islands, just the pieces worn around the necks of the elders. Other than that, the heart pearls worn by young wives. A few pieces of clothing, mostly formal robes, a piece or two tattered beyond repair. Luckily, he didn’t find anything typically embarrassing.

  The thing he found the most interesting was a book. Not because the book itself was interesting, with its blue-gray paper cover, though it was odd, as there were only sheets of hand-pressed paper and scrolls in the library. There was mostly bamboo rolled up in a series of slips everywhere else. This was a true-to-form book. The same kind that the Elders on the Island held with more respect than they had for the memories of their ancestors.

  Hao pulled it out of the bag, his fingers catching its rough edges. It was crude from the first page he looked at, doing a quick glance at each one until he was at the back. It was written in an untrained hand, still better than his, as he was now. Time stained the pages gray. But the string that bound the spine was in perfect condition, red with a luster of oil without the slick feeling or residue.

  “Is this beast’s hair?” Hao voiced his question. The nail of his thumb pulled down the string as it made a musical tone like a small drum echoing in the small hollow he was locked inside of.

  Pulling his eyes away from the spine, he found a painting on the back. It wasn’t anything special, a small hand-drawn symbol Hao knew well. It was the same character Hao first encountered on the mountain after being brought to the Drifting Stream Sect on his servant’s badge. Now, it was on the badge that labeled him a Disciple. Seemingly a character without meaning or purpose.

  Yet below the symbol, there was a kind of insight, though the words he found were a bit more sentimental than he expected. Rather than practical Cultivation advice, he was hoping for.

  The character has no meaning in its strokes, but in its flow. Not the flow of water, but the drift of the brush, like the bending of a stream. It tells of legacy and fate. The River of Ink and legacy feed those lost in the rapids of the Drifting Stream. The well, I dip my brush in, is my will, forcing my stream in directions I desire. As the brush runs dry, the lines I leave go thin. The stream will go stagnant or overflow. If my inkwell goes dry, fate will swallow me, or I will refill the inkwell by stealing the stream of its luster? That is where Uncle and Uncle-Master told me where my last lessons lie—at the empty of the inkwell. That is the tale a soul spins in the Drifting Stream. Leaving only the question by end: What is right, what is left of a person, what can be maintained when everything washes up on the Other Shore?

  Hao dwelled on the words for a few seconds, “Well, she certainly is sentimental… that’s surprising… I didn’t think such a person would wear a red… I think she would look better in blue.” He flipped the book over, back to the front.