The rain had stopped by dawn.
Qin Jingsheng stood alone inside the abandoned factory, staring at his palms. The concrete beneath his feet was still fractured from the night before, thin lines spreading like veins across the floor.
He hadn't slept.
Not because he couldn't—but because every time he closed his eyes, he could feel something answering him.
The air.
No, not the air itself.
Something within it.
He inhaled slowly, following the strange breathing rhythm he had stumbled upon weeks earlier. Three short breaths, one long exhale. His chest warmed, his pulse steadied.
This time, the sensation came faster.
A faint thread of Qi flowed into him, crude and turbulent, scraping against his meridians like unpolished stone.
Qin Jingsheng grimaced, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"So this is cultivation…" he muttered hoarsely.
There was no master to guide him, no ancient manual to refine his method. Every step forward was paid for with discomfort—sometimes pain. But unlike others who awakened and panicked, Qin Jingsheng felt something else.
Joy.
A raw, reckless joy.
He clenched his fist again.
The cracked concrete shuddered slightly.
Not enough to collapse. Not enough to draw attention from authorities.
Enough to tell him this was real.
.....
Across the country, similar awakenings were unfolding—but not all were so unrefined.
In a private training hall in Jiangnan, incense burned quietly.
A young woman named Tang Wanru completed a slow palm form, her movements fluid and precise. Each step aligned perfectly with her breathing, her Qi circulating in clean, elegant loops.
When she finished, an elderly instructor nodded in approval.
"Your foundation is stable. You've stepped into the early Qi Gathering realm properly."
Tang Wanru lowered her hands, expression calm. "It took longer than expected."
"That patience will save your life one day," the instructor replied.
She said nothing more—but in her heart, a subtle anticipation stirred.
She had heard whispers.
About others awakening outside the established paths.
....
....In the western region, within a heavily guarded research compound, Li Meng adjusted his glasses as data streamed across multiple screens.
Fluctuations. Resonance spikes. Irregular Qi signatures.
"This pattern again…" he murmured.
Li Meng was not cultivating openly—not yet.
His talent lay elsewhere: perception, analysis, deduction. Where others sensed Qi emotionally, he dissected it mathematically.
"Awakenings without guidance are increasing," his assistant reported. "Should we intervene?"
Li Meng shook his head. "Not yet. Let them grow."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"The ones who survive chaos without support… those are the most dangerous."
Back in the Xi'an, Qin Jingsheng wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.
His breathing technique had pushed him too far this time. His meridians throbbed, warning him clearly.
But he laughed softly.
"So I'm not special," he said to the empty factory. "Others are waking up too.
Instead of discouraging him, the thought sharpened his resolve.
If there were many—
Then he would simply have to run faster.
Far away, in Beijing, Fang Ze opened his eyes from meditation, a faint ripple dispersing around him.
His gaze turned southward for a brief moment.
"Another one," he thought.
The Golden Era was no longer knocking.
It was walking in—uninvited.
And the city, the nation, the world… would soon learn the difference between those who awakened by accident—
And those who were born to stand at the summit.