The first thing I did after making sure my stomach was full and my basic supplies were safely stored on the hut's small shelf was begin training—following the teachings that had just imprinted themselves into my head. No drama. No flashes of light turning me into an instant master. Just me, wooden floor, and the book that was no longer an object but knowledge soaked into my bones. The first step it taught was simple in name but difficult in practice: sensing Qi and gathering it in the dantian.
I sat cross-legged on the rough mat, closed my eyes, and cleared away every distraction. Breath. The count was slow—four seconds inhale, hold for two, six seconds exhale. Like the cheap meditation techniques I'd read on forums before, but the manual's instructions had a different tone: not merely calming, but inviting something. Slowly, I tried to feel—not forcing, just probing the inside of my body, which I once thought was empty. At first all I felt was the cold on my skin and the too-loud thumping of my heartbeat in my ears. That was it. No aura, no glow.
'Let it be. Patience.'
I repeated the breathing pattern until the muscles in my neck loosened and my head felt slightly light. Then the book said to visualize Qi as warm water slowly flowing from the top of the head downward, passing through the spine, then gathering at the point below the navel—the dantian. My visualization sucked; my imagination was clearly not built for mystical things. But somehow, after dozens of breaths, a subtle sensation appeared: like a thin roll of cloth creeping across my lower belly, a gentle pressure that wasn't painful, wasn't sore—just present. It wasn't empty imagination anymore—that was the beginning.
The sensation grew into warmth. Not sunlight warmth, but more like steam threading through bone. When I tried to focus, the warmth concentrated, forming a tiny point pressing from within—most distinct in my lower abdomen, exactly where the manual said the dantian was. My breathing automatically adjusted, my body refused to tense, and I felt like I was pulling on an extremely delicate thread. Sweat began to drip down my temples. My back muscles worked to keep my posture steady.
'Okay, this is real. You're not hallucinating.'
The first attempt was short—just a few minutes—but it left my body exhausted in a peculiar way. Not the exhaustion after running, but the kind you feel after using subtle muscles you never even knew existed. I repeated the session a few times each day. At first the little warm point vanished the moment I got distracted; if I thought of food or a bird's chirp, the Qi dissipated like smoke. But the more I repeated it, the more stable that point became. After three days of routine, the small point no longer faded when I opened my eyes. It stayed, like a tiny bucket holding liquid.
On the fifth day, I tried the next step: directing Qi from the dantian to my fingertips. A simple technique—focus, intent, then direct. At first it was just tingling, then a soft vibration. When I brought my palms close together, there was a warm sensation filling the spaces between skin and bone. I pressed the air between them, and for the first time I saw—not with my eyes, but felt—a faint glimmer between my fingers, like dew swirling under a lamp. It wasn't big, not spectacular, but enough to make my brain jump: I had just moved Qi. One tiny step—but a meaningful step.
Of course, none of this was without risk. The system's warning about resonance still echoed in my mind. 'Don't be reckless,' I reminded myself. I opened the system panel with slight hesitation.
[Activate Cloak-Anchor? Stabilization cost: absorption of 0.5% host energy per activation. Mode: On/Off]
'Better safe.' I chose On. The blue screen flickered in agreement, and I felt a light sensation like a clear cover settling around me—not blocking my senses, but preventing energy waves from leaking outward. With Cloak-Anchor active, I felt safer experimenting. Any resonance that might appear felt muffled; I could sense Qi within without making the surroundings feel strange.
Daily repetition turned into a rough routine: morning for breathing and gathering Qi, midday for circulating and strengthening the meridians, evening for simple physical training to adjust the body to the demands of the techniques—squats, lunges, slow punches while directing Qi. My body adapted; muscles that were once stiff began showing newfound coordination. My breath became deeper, stamina slightly increased, and recovery from fatigue came faster. Things that used to make me gasp felt lighter now. Small things, fragment by fragment, but I began to feel change: not instant strength, but foundation.
Once my foundation was built—once the Qi point in my dantian stabilized, the basic meridians began getting used to energy flow, and my body no longer reacted with nausea whenever I breathed too deeply—the next step was something actually harder than meditation: martial arts.
The manual didn't only teach cultivation theory. Its first volume also contained a set of basic movements to prepare the body for higher-level techniques. Still, there were no flashy moves, no poetic names like "Dragon Splits the Sky." Everything was fundamental, raw, and exhausting.
I started behind the hut—hard ground, a bit slippery, but spacious enough. The morning breeze carried the smell of tree sap, while the sun peeked between thick leaves. A perfect place to begin. I took a low horse stance, steadied my breath, then performed the first sequence.
Step, twist, straight punch.
Step, twist, straight punch.
The movements were simple, but the manual provided incredibly detailed instructions about knee position, hip rotation, center of gravity, even how to channel just a bit of Qi to strengthen momentum without causing resonance. At first my body felt awkward; my legs were too heavy, my arms limp, and my hips refused to cooperate. But I kept forcing my body to memorize the rhythm.
Repetition.
That was the core of the martial arts training in the manual: carving movement patterns into the body, not the mind.
One hour, two hours. Sweat dripped from my chin, darkening the dirt. My breath turned harsh, and occasionally I had to stop and balance my dantian so the Qi flow didn't tangle. Even though they were basic, the movements required coordination between body and energy—and that was entirely new to me.
After strikes came kicks.
After kicks came parries.
After parries came footwork patterns that were complicated yet natural.
In one training set, I had to perform more than a hundred repetitions per movement. On the first day alone, my muscles felt like they were being torn from within. My body trembled like a leaf in a storm. But the manual stated something very clearly: "The basic movements must become instinct before true techniques can be used."
'If the body doesn't memorize the foundation, Qi will never follow orders.'
So I repeated.
And repeated.
And repeated again.
On the third day, something changed. When I threw a straight punch, my body moved a little faster. When I shifted sideways, my foot no longer tripped on the same root. My muscles began to understand the sequence without me needing to think about it. And when I channeled a bit of Qi to the right position—just a little, like adding lubrication—the movement became lighter, sharper.
As if my body finally spoke: "Oh, this is what you want."
I combined the physical training with the Cloak-Anchor still active. No strange resonance, no wild energy vibrations. The system monitored, restrained, stabilized.
[Status Stable. Qi Output: 3–5%. No external anomalies detected.]
Every night, when my body felt like it had been soaked in exhaustion, I still repeated one set of movements before sleep. Its rhythm became a mantra:
—stance, inhale
—rotate the hips, channel Qi
—straight punch, exhale
Over time, the sound of my punch cutting through the air changed. From soft and weak… to dense. Heavy. As if there was weight trailing behind my fist every time I swung it.
My body really was memorizing.
And when that happened, I understood: this was the beginning of martial arts in this world—not dramatic nonsense, but a discipline that shaped the body with rough precision.
The next step was to test this martial art on a living creature. Theory and stones wouldn't tell me how an opponent's body reacts—muscles, reflexes, survival instinct—those only appear when something alive refuses to take your strike. A wild deer sounded ideal, elegant, and not too dangerous. Unfortunately, the forest didn't care about my preferences. The tracks I followed ended in a thick, rippling bush—no graceful running sounds, but a heavy snort.
I crept forward, parted the leaves, and what appeared wasn't a slender deer but a huge wild boar—huge in a… unnatural way. Dirty fur stuck to its body, but it was muscular, and its eyes held something strange, as if a golden glint flashed in its pupils when it exhaled.
'Wait… isn't this supposed to be just a normal wild boar!?' I cried, because logic was still trying to fight off discomfort.
[Answering… Confirmation: the creature has absorbed magical energy from nearby humans.]
"What!?" My voice spiked. Anxiety crawled up—energy absorption? That was not what I wanted to hear before my first practice fight against a living creature.
[System: Additional explanation—As with stories formed by society, locals often speak of a 'King of the Mountain' described as a boar the size of a hill. Ritual activity or mass belief can manifest energetic anomalies. That collective energy has been focused and absorbed by local fauna, causing growth and behavioral changes.]
I groaned. So it wasn't just empty folklore—human belief could ignite something here. The idea sent chills along my arms. If collective energy could physically affect animals, then what I was facing wasn't just a beast; it was a localized phenomenon altered by resonance.
'Don't be reckless,' I reminded myself. The Cloak-Anchor was active, but it only suppressed my energy output, not physical damage. I reconsidered my approach: the basic movements I'd learned—straight punch, block, footwork—were enough to read its motion without risking my life. My goal wasn't to kill it; just to test reactions and gauge strength.
I stepped forward slowly, placing myself in the stance I knew: low posture, steady breath, dantian filled with Qi that I restricted just enough to sharpen speed. The boar turned slightly, its nose twitching. It waited for me like a boulder ready to roll. Its body was large, yet its crouch showed an unexpected agility—its legs bent, hip muscles tightening.
'If I attack first, it might charge and gore me to death.' I held back, then made a testing move: one straight punch laced with a touch of Qi to gauge impact.
When the order left my head, my fist shot forward—not to strike its head, but to graze its side with the outer knuckles—measuring reaction. The boar's body shook, not from pain but from the vibration of transferred energy. It snorted long, then pushed forward with its head scraping the ground.
Oh. It was fast.
I leapt backward, shifted my footing, and used a side kick to its ribs—again not to kill, but to measure. My kick hit thick, vibrating muscle, and there was a faint metallic ring in the air—as if a stored wave of energy had been released. The boar roared, its voice like a struck gong, and for the first time, I felt the resonance coming off it—not just physical, but with a magical undertone.
'Resonance detected,' I thought sharply, glancing at the system display. [Warning: External resonance increasing. Cloak-Anchor Mode: On. Recommendation: Reduce Qi output.]
To reduce the risk of attracting more entities or triggering magical reactions, I lowered the Qi infusion. Basic technique without added energy was still effective physically but minimized potential backlash. I resumed using a combination of footwork and targeted strikes—pressuring but not lethal. The boar began showing patterns: when I attacked from the side, it twisted its body; when I waited and lunged forward, it attempted a short hop to close distance.
The fight wasn't a duel of legends versus a novice. It felt more like a dangerous dance—two bodies testing each other to find limits. Sweat flowed down my face. There were moments when its tusks grazed dangerously close to my arm when I misjudged distance; moments where my punch sent it stumbling sideways.
At one critical moment, it scraped the ground and leapt—its head shooting upward with unexpected speed. I slammed my forearm into its belly, diverting the attack with a reflex that was almost automatic. The impact sent a vibration through my palm—not painful, but definitely a reminder that the creature wasn't a toy.
I stepped back several times, panting, and watched it stand—its body shaking, but not collapsing. My breath was heavy, but not from fear; this was training that opened my eyes: basic techniques worked, but facing a creature infused with collective energy was far different from empty drills.
'Okay. I don't need to win today,' I thought. I raised a hand in a small surrender gesture, lowering my stance. The boar halted its advance, looking at me with eyes that now seemed calmer. There was a simple acknowledgment there—an animal recognizing an opponent with limits.
[Status: Resonance decreased after non-extreme interaction. No further anomalies detected.]
My breathing slowed. My body trembled not just from exhaustion, but from adrenaline peaking. I chuckled softly to myself; my training worked, at least for now. I'd learned something important: strength wasn't just about hitting hard, but about reading movement, conserving energy, and using Qi as lubricant, not a weapon.
As I walked back to the cabin, leaving the massive boar fading into the bushes, I knew one thing: this forest held far more anomalies shaped by human stories.