The cobwebs in the rafters above Taiyeng’s head shimmered, coated in dust motes that danced in the sliver of dawn-light filtering through the grimy window. He hung there, suspended a breath from the rough-hewn ceiling beams, a picture of serene discomfort. His back was pressed flat against the wood, his threadbare robes clinging to him like a second skin, and the faint hum that vibrated through his very bones was not the chill of the mountain air, but the frantic, barely contained roar of his own cultivation. Twenty years. Twenty years he had spent as a broom-bearing monk within the mountain cloister, scrubbing away the grime of the world, and yet the volatile essence of the Scorched Earth Paragon still clung to him like burrs to wool. He’d meticulously sealed away his inner furnace, a feat of self-mutilation that would have driven lesser cultivators to madness, reducing his once-world-breaking power to a barely manageable tremor. But the spiritual leylines of Qilong were potent, drawing energy from the very heart of the Baidi continent. Sometimes, on nights like these, when the moon hung full and the energies pulsed strongest, a sliver of that suppressed Qi would leak, manifesting as an inconvenient, involuntary antigravity field. He grumbled, a low growl in his throat. This was the third time this week. He was supposed to be the *invisible* servant monk, the one who swept the fallen leaves and polished the meditation bells, not the one who spontaneously levitated from his cot. Such an oversight could draw unwanted attention, and unwanted attention was the antithesis of a peaceful, mundane existence. His current predicament was the direct result of a stray thought about the elder’s particularly pungent brand of tea—a moment of distraction that had caused his control to waver. Taiyeng focused, channeling his irritation into a precise mental push against the rogue Qi. He imagined it as a recalcitrant dog, barking at the wrong moment. *Down. Stay.* For a long moment, the hum intensified, threatening to tear his carefully constructed seals. Then, with a soft sigh, the pressure eased. He began to descend, slow and controlled, aiming for the straw mat that served as his bed. *Almost there. Just a little more…* A shrill, choked sob erupted from the floor directly below. Taiyeng flinched. The sound, raw with despair, snapped his concentration like dry kindling. The contained Qi burst, a sudden, violent expulsion of energy that was more like a sneeze than a controlled release. The ceiling beams groaned, splintered, and then, with a sharp *CRACK*, gave way. He fell through the hole he’d just created, a shower of plaster dust and splinters raining down around him. He landed with a muffled thud, his body automatically tucking into a roll that killed most of the impact, even as his head bumped unceremoniously against the stone floor. His broom, a gnarled piece of oak he’d carved himself, flew from his grasp and clattered across the flagstones. “Blast it all,” Taiyeng muttered, pushing himself up, dusting plaster from his robes. He frowned, his gaze drawn to the source of the sob. Curled in a tight ball, directly in the path of the newly formed hole in the floor, sat a girl. She was young, perhaps sixteen seasons, her delicate features marred by the puffy redness of recent tears. Her dark hair, usually braided with silken cords of royalty, was disheveled, strands sticking to her tear-streaked cheeks. The rich, but now slightly torn, embroidery of her sapphire robes spoke of a lineage far above the servant’s quarters. He recognized the crest sewn into her collar, vaguely: a crest belonging to a discarded royal lineage. Her shoulders trembled with each ragged breath. “I… I only wished to learn the Way of the Skyfang,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, choked with humiliation. “Elder Rivan said… he said my soul was too fractured. That I possessed no talent. That I was a defect.” She clutched a small, crudely carved wooden bird to her chest, her knuckles white. Taiyeng felt a familiar heat ignite within him, a molten core stirring after two decades of dormancy. *Fractured soul? No talent?* He had seen a thousand so-called 'talented' youths, pampered by their sects, crumble at the first touch of true adversity. He’d seen the raw, unyielding desperation that fueled true power, and he saw it now, blazing like a tiny, defiant ember beneath her wet lashes. Elder Rivan, with his plump hands and even plumper inner reserves, had always been a pompous windbag, but to crush an initiate with such casual cruelty… His vision blurred for a fraction of a second, the periphery of his sight glowing with a faint, angry orange. He bent to retrieve his broom, his grip tightening on the worn oak handle. He didn’t mean to. Not really. But the rage, bottled for so long, flared. It wasn't the kind of rage that made you shout; it was the kind that simply *burned*. His hand, clutching the broom, gave off a faint tremor. A small, ornate effigy of the sect founder stood on a nearby shelf, its glazed clay serene and untouched. Taiyeng’s gaze, still tinged with that furious orange, swept over it. He pictured Elder Rivan’s self-satisfied smirk. The broom, a simple tool of the lowest rank, began to glow with an inner heat. A low *hiss* rose in the small room, the scent of ozone stinging the air. The effigy, pristine moments before, began to crack. Fine lines spread across the glazed clay, spiderwebbing across the patriarch's benevolent face. Then, with a soft *POP* that was almost polite, it simply disintegrated into a puff of ash that drifted harmlessly to the ground. The broom, now slightly singed at the bristles, released a final, angry pulse of heat and then returned to its ordinary state. Taiyeng stared at the empty shelf, then at his hand, then at the broom. *Blast. Blast and double blast.* He had just incinerated a prized monastery relic, all because of an elder’s casual cruelty. Footsteps, hurried and numerous, echoed from the corridor outside. Several servant monks, drawn by the crash and the strange smell, were approaching. His cover, his hard-won peace, was about to crumble. He had to think, and quickly. Taiyeng straightened his back, his expression hardening into something profoundly severe. His voice, usually a quiet rumble, boomed, carrying a surprising resonance. “Ahem! A splendid demonstration, wouldn’t you agree, child?” The girl, startled by his sudden shift, tilted her chin upward, blinking through wet lashes. She seemed to shrink further into herself. “This… this humble one merely showed you the first principle,” Taiyeng continued, gesturing grandly with his broom towards the now-empty shelf, as if the vanished statue were merely part of the lesson. “The Way of the Scorched Path! A secret technique, passed down through generations of those deemed unworthy by the Inner Court. It teaches that even the most ordinary tool, wielded with true intent and a focused heart, can purge the rot of the world. And sometimes, that rot takes the form of… overly fragile clay figures.” He fixed her with an intense stare. “You witnessed it, yes?” The girl blinked, her mind scrambling to reconcile the disheveled monk who fell through the ceiling with this sudden master who spoke of secret arts and vaporized relics with a broom. She looked at the empty shelf, at the fine ash, then at the singed broom. A stubborn gleam cut through her puffy gaze. Elder Rivan had said she was defective, but this man… this peculiar elder… he spoke of burning away flaws. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the bruises, her sapphire robes shimmering. With a speed Taiyeng found both alarming and oddly impressive, she dropped to her knees, forehead pressed to the cold stone. “Master!” she choked out, her throat thick with desperate relief. “This disciple, Ryunhia of the fractured soul, begs to be accepted into your Way of the Scorched Path! I swear, I will dedicate my life to clearing away every flaw!” Taiyeng stared down at the trembling princess, then at his broom. He, the Scorched Earth Paragon, had just accidentally adopted a disowned royal with a fragmented soul, all to avoid expulsion for incinerating a cheap clay figurine. His mundane, peaceful life had just taken a very sharp, very unexpected turn. And for some reason, the faint, lingering scent of ozone still made him incredibly irate.

The Danger of Leaking Qi