Chương 27: This Old Man’s Back Cannot Withstand This Dao

Dawn light filters through the trees. We eat a quick breakfast of dried meat and berries, and I turn to her.

"Now help me with the Frost Manual. Watch, correct, advise." She nods seriously, settling onto a rock with the same intensity she brings to everything. I begin the frozen palm forms, moving slowly, feeling the cold qi gather in my meridians.

"Your weight's wrong." Her voice cuts through my concentration.

"You're leaning forward when you strike, which means your root is weak. If someone dodged and countered, you'd fall." I adjust, shifting my stance.

"Better. Now your qi flow: you're gathering cold in your palm, but you're not gathering it everywhere. The cold should start in your dantian and spread outward through your whole body, not just appear at the point of contact. It's a wave, not a point." I try. It's harder than she makes it sound. The cold wants to pool in my hand, not spread through my limbs.

"You're thinking too much." She tilts her head, watching my internal flow through those impossible eyes.

"The Frost Manual says 'become the cold,' not 'create the cold.' You're still creating. You're still separate from it. Become."

"Become the cold" is extremely abstract. How do you become an element? How do you transform your identity into a temperature? In my past life, that would be nonsense. Meaningless spiritual talk. But I've read enough xianxia BS to know that in this world, abstract is often literal. Cultivation runs on belief, on visualization, on becoming what you imagine. And more importantly, I trust her. She sees things I can't. If she says I need to become the cold, then I need to try. I close my eyes. Breathe. Center.

Become the cold. Not gather it, not shape it— be it. I think of winter mornings in my past life. Frost on windows. Breath misting in the air. The quiet stillness of snow. I think of this body's memories; decades of meditation, of feeling qi flow, of understanding cold as an absence, a stillness, a waiting. My palm freezes. Not just the surface. The whole hand, the wrist, the forearm. Ice forms on my skin in beautiful fractal patterns, but it doesn't hurt. It feels... natural.

Like this is what my hand was always meant to be. I open my eyes and strike a nearby tree. The impact point freezes instantly, white spreading across the bark in a perfect circle. Then it shatters, ice and wood fragments exploding inward, leaving a crater six inches deep. I stare at my hand. The ice is already melting, but the cold remains, a reservoir I can draw on.

"Better." Ling'er's voice holds approval.

"Much better. Now do it again, but this time, don't stop at the wrist. Let the cold fill your whole body." I try. It's harder. Much harder. My body resists, too many elements, too much history of mixing instead of focusing. But I persist. Through the morning, through midday, into afternoon. By evening, I've made more progress on the Frost Manual than in the previous month.

Lu Chen - Frost Manual Progress Previous: Level 2 (40%) Current: Level 2 (85%) - Close to mastering second level Combat Effectiveness: +30% from Ling'er's guidance I sit by the fire as darkness falls, flexing my cold-adapted fingers. Across the flames, Ling'er reads her children's book by firelight, sounding out words, smiling at pictures. A strange pair. A mediocre sect leader and an impossible child. But we're learning. Both of us. Tomorrow, we reach the sect.

I sit by the fire as darkness falls, flexing my cold-adapted fingers. The sensation is strange; a permanent chill that doesn't discomfort, a reservoir of frozen power waiting to be tapped. For the first time in forty years, I feel like I'm actually progressing. Actually improving. Actually becoming something more than mediocre. Across the flames, Ling'er reads her children's book by firelight. Her lips move silently as she sounds out words, her finger tracing each line.

She's on the third story now—something about a brave rabbit who outsmarts a wolf. Her face lights up at the illustrations, and for a moment she's just a twelve-year-old girl, lost in a simple tale. After another day of constant travel, we're resting by a stream, the afternoon sun warm on our faces. Ling'er dangles her feet in the cool water, humming softly. I'm reviewing my notes, cataloging techniques, planning the next phase. Then I see it. A tree.

A big one; three feet thick, ancient, deeply rooted, its trunk rising like a pillar toward the sky. The kind of tree that's been standing since before my sect existed. The kind of tree that will stand for centuries more. I feel a nagging sense. It's been building all day. Watching Ling'er upstage every genius I've ever known. Watching her break every understanding of what's possible. Watching her lift boulders and uproot trees and move like nothing I've ever seen. She's twelve.

She's been cultivating for less than a month. And I'm forty-eight. I've been cultivating for decades. Perhaps instead of just watching her, I should participate too! Do some body refinement of my own! Show some solidarity! Prove that this old sect leader still has something to offer!

"Watch this," I tell Ling'er, setting down my notes. She looks up, curious.

"Master?" I stride toward the tree with the confidence of a man who has temporarily forgotten he's a middle-aged cultivator with a bad back and no talent for earth techniques. I find my grip on the trunk. Wrap my arms around it. Brace my feet. And pull. For a moment nothing happens. The tree stands immovable, ancient, unimpressed by my efforts. Then my back screams in protest.

A sharp pain lances through my spine, the kind of pain that says what are you doing, you fool, we agreed no more heroic gestures after forty. My grip fails. My legs buckle. I collapse into the grass, gasping, stars exploding behind my eyes. I lie there, staring at the sky, pain radiating through my lower back in waves. The tree hasn't moved. Of course it hasn't moved. It's a three-foot-thick ancient oak that's been here since before I was born. I curse myself silently. Damn my Earth memories.

Damn them for making me forget that I'm a middle-aged man. And if there's one thing middle-aged men in both worlds have in common, it's that their backs are fragile. Ling'er is there instantly, her small hands supporting my shoulders, her face a mask of concern. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Master! Master, are you okay? What happened? Should I get help? Should I—""I'm..." I wheeze, trying to find air.

"I'm forty years old. I'm not built for uprooting trees. At least not that large." She stares at me. Then she starts laughing. It's delighted, surprised, uncontrollable laughter that bubbles out of her like water from a spring. She claps her hands over her mouth, trying to stop, but it only makes it worse.

"You tried to uproot a tree!" Tears are forming at the corners of her eyes.

"Because I did! Master, you—" She dissolves into giggles again, bending over, unable to contain herself. After a moment, I start laughing too. It hurts. Everything hurts. But I'm lying in the grass, being laughed at by a twelve-year-old prodigy, and somehow it's the most genuine moment we've shared.

"I wanted to show solidarity," I groan, still chuckling.

"Master-disciple bonding. Mutual effort. Instead I show my disciple that her master is an idiot with a fragile back."

"You showed something, all right." She wipes her eyes, still grinning, and helps me sit up. Her small hands are surprisingly strong; dragon blood, I remind myself.

"Master, you're amazing. But maybe leave the tree-uprooting to me, okay?" I meet her eyes, trying to look dignified despite my prone position.

"Disrespect. That's what it is. Disciples these days, laughing at their sect leaders. In my day—""In your day, what? You also tried to uproot trees and failed?"

"... That's not the point." She giggles again, helping me to my feet. I test my back: sore, but recovering. Foundation Establishment is good for something, at least.

"Deal," I say.

"You uproot trees. I'll watch and take notes. That's where my talents lie."

"That's where your talents lie now." She looks at me with those too-deep eyes.

"You're getting better, Master. The Frost Manual is working. In a few years, maybe you'll be uprooting trees too."

"A few years," I repeat.

"By then you'll be uprooting mountains." She considers this seriously.

"Probably. But I'll still let you take notes." I laugh again, and we continue down the path. We camp in a cave as night falls, a small shelter we found hours ago, dry and hidden. Ling'er meditates in the corner, the Five Phases method visible in the subtle glow around her. I sit by a small fire, reviewing two days of progress. Ling'er - End of Travel Assessment Cultivation: Qi Condensation (2nd Stage) → Qi Condensation (3rd Stage) Breakthrough occurred during afternoon training. Stable, no issues.

Lu Chen - Progress Assessment Frost Manual: Level 2 (85%) → Level 2 (95%) - Almost mastered second level Combat Effectiveness: Noticeably improved. Ling'er's guidance is transformative. Back Status: Sore but recovering. Worth it. I set down my brush and look at her across from me. Meditating. Growing. Becoming. The fire crackles. The cave is warm. Outside, the mountain waits. Tomorrow, we reach the sect. Tomorrow, everything changes again. We sit by a small fire, eating preserved food from my storage ring.

The flames cast dancing shadows on the cave walls, warm and intimate. Outside, the mountain wind whispers through the darkness. Ling'er is quiet, contemplative. She pokes at her food with a stick, not really eating.

"Master? Can I ask you something?"

"Anything." She hesitates, then: "Why did you try to uproot that tree? Really? Not the joke answer—the real reason." I consider the question. The fire crackles between us. Her eyes are earnest, searching, wanting to understand something she can't quite grasp.

"Because you do hard things every day." I set down my food, giving her my full attention.

"You push yourself beyond limits that would break anyone else. You lift boulders and uproot trees and learn techniques in hours that would take others years. And you do it all without complaint, without hesitation, without ever asking 'why me' or 'is this fair'." She watches me, listening.

"I wanted you to know that I see that. That I appreciate it. That I'm willing to do hard things too, even if I'm not as good at them." I smile ruefully.

"Even if I fail spectacularly and end up flat on my back in the grass."

"And I wanted to remind myself," I continue, "that the other disciples—Mei Lin, Wei Chen, all of them—they won't grow as fast as you. They'll never grow as fast as you. No one will. That's not a flaw in them; it's just reality." She nods slowly.

"In that sense, you need to learn patience. Learn understanding. People can't uproot trees like you do. People will not grow as fast as you, and that's okay. They're still valuable. They still matter. The sect isn't just you, it's everyone. And if you forget that, if you start looking down on them for being slow, you'll become the kind of cultivator I don't want you to be."

"I know that." Her voice is soft.

"I can see it; their threads are different from mine. Slower. But they're still bright. Still connected. I won't forget."

"I know you won't. But I wanted to say it anyway." She's silent for a long moment, staring into the fire.

"Master." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"No one ever did anything like that for me. Before you. No one ever tried to show solidarity. No one ever tried to be like me, even for a moment. They just... watched. Or ignored me. Or told me I wasn't worth noticing."

"I know."

"I'm going to protect you forever." She looks up, and her eyes are wet.

"When I'm strong enough—when I'm really strong, Nascent Soul or beyond—nothing will ever hurt you again. I'll stand in front of you and nothing will get past. I'll be your shield forever."

"I'll learn every defensive technique I can find. I'll make my dragon fire into a wall that nothing can cross. I'll use the bone to see every attack before it comes. I'll be so strong that just knowing I'm near you will make people afraid to even think about threatening you. And I'll—""Ling'er." She stops, mid-babble, looking at me with those earnest, tear-filled eyes.

"Listen to me." I lean forward, meeting her gaze.

"If you spend your life being my shield, you'll never have the hands free to reach for the heavens." She blinks.

"I didn't save you from that kitchen to make you my bodyguard. I didn't train you, feed you, teach you, just so you could stand in front of me and block attacks." I shake my head slowly.

"You have dragon blood. You have a cosmic bone. You have the potential to reshape reality itself. And you want to spend that potential... guarding me?"

"But I—""What happens when I'm gone? When I die of old age in a few decades, or get killed by someone stronger, or just fade away like all mediocre cultivators do? What happens to your promise then?" She's silent.

"Your protection shouldn't be a cage, Ling'er. Not for me, and not for you." I reach out and ruffle her hair gently.

"I want you to grow. To ascend. To reach heights I can't even imagine. And when you do, I want you to remember me fondly, not chain yourself to my memory."

"But I don't want you to die." Her voice is small, childlike.

"I don't want to die either. And thanks to you, I might actually reach Core Formation someday. Maybe even live longer than I ever expected." I smile.

"But that's not the point. The point is—your life is yours. Not mine. Not the sect's. Not anyone's. You get to choose what you become." She's quiet for a long moment, processing.

"I can choose?"

"You can choose. And you should choose something bigger than being my shield." She looks at her hands. Small hands that have uprooted trees and shattered stone and created dragons of living flame.

"What if I choose to protect you and reach for the heavens?" I laugh softly.

"That's a much better choice."

"And what if I choose to make you reach for them with me?" I blink.

"I'm not—I can't—Ling'er, I'm mediocre. I have no talent. No potential. The same talent I have that helped me find you… finds no talent within myself."

"That talent is wrong." She says it simply, with absolute certainty.

"It sees cultivation, but it doesn't see you. The threads I see, they're stronger than your cultivation suggests. Much stronger. Like you're meant for something more than just being mediocre." I stare at her.

"I don't know what it means yet," she continues.

"But I know you're not nothing. You're my master. You tried to uproot a tree for me. You teach me and feed me and buy me storybooks. You're not nothing." For a moment, I can't speak. Then I look at her, this impossible child, this dragon-blooded, cosmic-boned miracle, and I believe her.

"Thank you, Ling'er. For seeing me as I have seen you."