Chương 77: Chapter 78 — Youngwoo’s Training I: Gathering Qi 氣

As he practiced, his breathing grew longer. It was no longer what it had been at the beginning. His inhalations no longer scattered shallowly, and the gathered breath sank slowly and deeply below the lower dantian. It was not a breath that simply entered. It was a breath that gathered, then descended. Instead of dispersing, it collected into a single point and settled downward, quietly, as if seeping into the depths. Youngwoo sat still with his eyes closed.

His body did not move, and only the energy that filled heaven and earth seeped inward. It was not something he forcefully drew in, but something that had always been there, now returning to its place—quietly, naturally. At first, there was nothing. It was empty. Like reaching out and grasping at nothing, no matter how much he focused his intent, there was no place for it to land. No matter how deeply he sent his awareness, it failed to reach; like trying to scoop water with his hands, everything slipped away.

Time accumulated. One day, then another. He steadied his breathing and pressed down the scattered currents of qi, gathering them. The breath that once dispersed became shorter, and that shortened breath gradually deepened. With each repetition, the flow within his body began to settle, slowly aligning toward a single direction. The heat that had wandered through his body subsided. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

What had risen upward descended, and the cold places slowly began to warm. That warmth did not spread outward, but remained in one place, becoming clearer, more distinct with time. At some point, a faint sensation appeared. Deep within his lower abdomen— the Milyeogung (尾閭宮). Something began to form there. At first, it felt like an illusion. It flickered briefly, then vanished. Whenever he tried to grasp it, it dissolved even faster. Youngwoo did not try to seize it. He left it as it was.

He allowed it to flow naturally. He had been taught that forcing it would cause the qi to surge upward, ruining the work. So he did not interfere with the flow. Another day passed. The same place. This time, it lingered a little longer. It was small. No larger than the tip of a fingernail. Yet it was unmistakably there. When he inhaled, it gathered there. When he exhaled, it did not disperse. It remained. It felt as though that tiny, mustard-seed-like thing was beating like a heart.

Expanding, contracting, then expanding again— as if it were breathing on its own. It was separate from his physical breath, a movement that existed by itself. Youngwoo's lowered eyelids trembled slightly. He focused to suppress the rising thoughts, yet he already knew something had changed. He did not move. He did not force his intent. He simply left the path open. He neither grasped nor rejected it, but allowed it to remain where it was. More days passed. That small sensation became denser. It no longer scattered.

It did not disappear. It was there. Steadfast in its place. And then— there came a moment. Deep within the Milyeogung, something settled— with a faint, internal thud. It had taken root. A tiny spark. It was not hot. Yet it did not go out. In that instant, Youngwoo's breathing stilled. Or rather, it became still. It was not that the flow had stopped, but that it no longer needed to move. The spark remained. Without effort, without grasping, it stayed where it was. Around it, everything within his body grew quiet.

The qi that had risen settled downward, and the scattered breath gathered into one place. What had once been hollow was now filled. The emptiness within him was no longer empty. The qi had found its ground and rested there in stillness. Youngwoo slowly opened his eyes. The world had not changed. And yet, something within him had. For the first time, there was something that remained inside his body. Something that did not waver, did not vanish, and did not leave even without being held.

What should one call such a thing? It had no name. It could not be spoken of, nor compared. Some called it the self. Some called it existence. Others called it inner power. But it was none of these. The moment it was named, it became distorted. So he said nothing. Words were unnecessary. Language did not exist to define this— it existed only to reach it. Youngwoo closed his eyes once more. Only now— at last— could he truly begin.