In late spring, the sky hung low beneath drifting shadows of cloud. The skylights of the Tower City Municipal Library Eastern District Branch cast a dim yellow glow, while the sounds of turning pages and low whispers echoed between the shelves.
Ryan sat in the last row of the children's section on the third floor. An open book lay before him, titled Introduction to Eastern Body Techniques and Mind Methods.
It was a worn but well-preserved booklet, its cover faded and its edges slightly curled. He had found it by chance in a disassembled wooden crate in a corner of the library. He had originally assumed it was merely some general material on fist-training formulas, but when he turned to the fifth chapter, he saw a striking subheading:
"Inner Cultivation: Methods of Breath Regulation and Intent Guidance"
The page contained neither illustrations nor lengthy flourishes. Its language was plain, yet its structure was exceptionally clear. It discussed everything from "settling the mind through breathing," "observing the body with closed eyes," and "sensing below the navel" to "uniting mind and intent" and "guarding the spirit without disturbance." Though it never mentioned "Nen" or "abilities," it clearly conveyed one concept—the human spirit could be trained and eventually brought to control the flow of energy.
Ryan's gaze lingered on the character for "qi" for a long time.
He had seen that character before. But this was the first time he had encountered a book in reality that discussed the concept of internal power, treating "qi" as an actual structural existence.
He knew it was not the same as Nen, but he also keenly realized that this was precisely one of the boundary layers of Nen.
He borrowed the book from the shelf and slipped it home beneath his exercise notebook.
From that day onward, he added a new section to his training system:
[Quiet Breathing Training · Meditation Segment]
He scheduled this period after dinner and before washing up. He spread an old cushion beside his bed, sat cross-legged, rested his hands naturally on his knees, straightened his back, closed his eyes, and entered a meditative state.
At first, he felt nothing. His breathing was sometimes hurried and sometimes slow, and his legs went numb after ten minutes of sitting. More often, distracting thoughts flew everywhere: thoughts about training, memories of movements, images of blueprints. Even when he forced himself to grow still, he always lost focus after a few minutes.
But he did not give up. He regarded this part of his training as a form of "inner forging," equal to throwing punches and training with weights.
He wrote in his record book:
Day 1: Attention maintained for 2 minutes and 41 seconds;
Day 4: Completed the first full five-minute breathing-control segment;
Day 10: Distraction-free state maintained for over 8 minutes; heartbeat stable, no sweating;
Day 15: Abdominal breathing switched naturally; breathing fluctuations eased; consciousness clear.
Meditation gave him a feeling completely different from physical training—
It was not force, overcoming, or resistance, but allowing himself to "stop," and hearing the echoes of his body in the silence.
He tried to "search for the flow of qi" during meditation.
He could not truly "sense qi"—he knew he had not yet reached the threshold of Nen Ability. But after several weeks of continuous meditation training, his attention, emotional fluctuations, instantaneous concentration, and ability to control his breathing rhythm all quietly changed.
For the first time, he could actively adjust his rhythm when his heart began to race; for the first time, he could withdraw and cool down at the edge of anger; for the first time, he could listen to his teacher with complete concentration without getting distracted even once.
This was growth beyond "power."
And compared with the explosive force of physical ability, this "shaping of the mind" made him feel the essence of the strong even more deeply.
One day on the way home from school, a classmate was scolded after knocking over a cup of water and became so agitated that he nearly started an argument. The entire class fell into a minor commotion, and the teacher hurried over to settle things. Ryan sat to one side and watched the disorder, his heart unmoved, as though he were sitting in an observer's seat on another plane of existence.
That day, he wrote:
"To move without chaos is strength; to be still without scattering is the heart."
Ryan had never been a child who acted by instinct.
Since beginning his meditation training, he had completely separated his "sitting quietly" time from his "physical training"—the former as the main pillar of mental cultivation, and the latter as the foundation of bodily growth.
Whenever he finished practicing punches against the sandbag and completing his weighted exercises in the morning, he would enter his quiet-breathing segment after studying and reading in the afternoon. He had set it as the "cooldown and conclusion" of his daily training, stabilizing his mind and absorbing all the fluctuations left behind by the day's activities.
By the time June arrived, his meditation had continued for a full thirty days.
At this point, Ryan could sit steadily for more than fifteen minutes. His breathing was natural and his heartbeat calm, and he no longer struggled to maintain his posture as he had in the beginning. He began trying "consciousness-sensing exercises"—during meditation, he concentrated his attention on specific parts of his body, such as "three inches below the navel," "the chest," "the artery on the back of the hand," or "the center of the palm."
The purpose was not to "mobilize qi," but to "understand how consciousness projected itself into the body." In other words—
If Nen Ability truly originated from the connection between the control of intent and the mobilization of breath, then what he needed to establish at this moment was a "sense of direction."
At first, he could only feel the rhythm of his heartbeat. Later, he learned to sense the "changes in tension within his chest" while taking deep breaths. Later still, he began trying to imagine "a ball of light" during meditation, projecting it into his body and observing where he could sense a "rise in temperature" or a "change in muscle tension."
This exercise produced no immediate results, nor did it truly "awaken qi." But he understood clearly: the road to Nen required an "intentionally controllable path" first.
His consciousness was like water, gradually carving out a stable current day by day.
And this "steadiness" gradually seeped into every corner of his life.
In class, the teacher was the first to notice it. No matter how noisy the environment was, Ryan could always finish his assignments at once. While the other students were distracted by their surroundings, he continued copying and calculating without looking aside. Even during the most tedious arithmetic exercises, he maintained a steady rhythm from beginning to end.
On the back page of the grade book, the teacher wrote: "This student possesses extraordinary concentration and self-control beyond his age group."
At home, his parents also clearly sensed that their son seemed to have "grown quieter."
It was not the sullen silence of refusing to communicate, but rather an air of being "extremely reserved without feeling repressed."
Sometimes, his mother could not help asking, "Ryan, is something on your mind lately? Why do you keep sitting by yourself without saying anything?"
"No." He answered calmly, "I'm thinking about how to solve the problems."
Sometimes, his father would joke, "Are you cultivating immortality?"
He would look up and smile. "I'm training my concentration. I'm afraid I'll make mistakes later."
They laughed and shook their heads, but they were reassured all the same.
He had not become strange or obsessive. He simply had more "backbone" than all the children his age.
This steadiness shifted everyone's attention away from "what he was practicing" and toward—"What a sensible, quiet, and slightly clever child."
Only Ryan himself knew that he had reached a crucial milestone during meditation:
That day, while his entire body was relaxed, he successfully maintained his consciousness on the "warmth at his fingertips" for more than four minutes.
He could clearly sense his consciousness forming a "stable perceptual hotspot" where his knuckles met his skin. He had not sensed any "flow of qi," but he could already make his bodily sensory structures actively respond to the commands of his consciousness.
This would be the most crucial foundation before he truly awakened his Nen Ability.
That night, he recorded the following:
[Meditation Training · Day 32]
Practice: Localized Consciousness Guidance—Knuckle Concentration Segment
Result: Sitting duration: 17 minutes; perceptual retention time: 4 minutes 37 seconds;
Effect: Persistent warmth appeared at the fingertips; heartbeat showed no disruption; attention projection remained stable
Self-assessment:
No sensation of qi; training not yet entered;
Consciousness guidance preliminarily completed; directional stability at 80%;
Mental state remained steady throughout, with zero fluctuations;
Conclusion: Ready to enter the preparatory stage of "mind-body synchronization," moving closer to the "qi-sensation model."
He closed his notebook and nodded, feeling neither joy nor fear.
He knew that what truly mattered was not "how long he had cultivated," but rather—whether the steadiness and clarity he possessed after each training session had grown deeper.
That night, he slept deeply.
What meditation gave him was neither light nor qi, but—the foundation to first build himself as firmly as a mountain before the chaotic world arrived.
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