The scent of stale oolong and dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight defined the Half-Float Teahouse. Shen Tinghe, the proprietor, was draped over the counter like a discarded sack of rice, a faint snore rumbling in his chest. His usually immaculate grey robes were creased flat across the stomach, proof that his naps often stretched from languid afternoons into proper twilight slumber. Outside, the clamor of the annual Sinking Stone Scramble – a slum district tournament where cultivators scrabbled for scraps of spirit ore – rattled the windowpanes. To Shen, it was merely background noise for a particularly good nap. “A man of your… refined tastes should appreciate a good struggle, Shen-ge,” a booming voice cut through the doze, accompanied by the clink of a ceramic cup. Tang Zongwu, a mountain of a man with a booming laugh and an unearned air of prosperity, was already seated at his usual, perpetually wobbly table, sipping from a cup of Shen’s premium ‘Cloud-Kissed Jade’ brew. “Why, young Jinbei just elbowed old Master Ruan into the mud. A true spectacle!” Shen stirred, a low groan escaping him. “Jinbei has elbows the size of gourds. It’s hardly a spectacle, Zongwu. It’s physics.” He didn’t open his eyes. “And you’re drinking my good tea again.” “Nonsense, I’m ‘sampling’ for quality control. It’s a merchant’s duty!” Tang Zongwu winked, though Shen couldn't see it. “Besides, I’m paying you with my charming company. Priceless, wouldn’t you agree?” Before Shen could muster a suitably sarcastic reply, the teahouse door creaked open, admitting a gust of cool, night air and a wiry courier, his face obscured by the deep hood of his uniform. The man carried a polished mahogany box, surprisingly large, which he unceremoniously thumped onto the counter, right beside Shen’s ear. The thud made Shen finally open his eyes, blinking slowly. “Delivery for Shen Tinghe,” the courier grunted, his voice flat. He thrust a crumpled receipt forward. “Signed by…” He squinted at the faded script. “By Elder Khailan. From the Whispering Peaks.” Shen’s brow drew tight. Khailan of the Whispering Peaks. A minor sect elder he’d brushed shoulders with decades ago, a man known for rigid adherence to tradition and an unfortunate penchant for dramatic pronouncements. The man was supposed to have died years ago in a rogue spirit beast attack. Tang Zongwu leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, a midnight delivery! From a long-lost admirer, perhaps? Shen-ge, you sly dog! I always knew you had a secret life beyond napping and lukewarm tea.” Shen merely sighed, pushing himself upright. He picked up the heavy box. It was locked, but the clasp yielded with a soft click under his touch, as if sensing his subtle, almost unconscious spiritual energy. He lifted the lid. Inside, curled into a defensive ball, was a child. Scarcely eight years old, with eyes that burned with a feral, amber light and sharp, nascent horns barely visible beneath a shock of midnight black hair. A demon-blooded orphan. The child snarled, a low, guttural sound that vibrated with raw, untamed Qi. Beneath the child lay a single parchment slip. Shen unfolded it, his gaze sweeping over the familiar, elegant script. It spoke of a desperate plea, a dying wish. Khailan had discovered this child, Baili Yan, abandoned at the foot of the Cangming Astral Court’s floating mountains, tainted by a demon heritage the Court would surely condemn. Khailan, with his last breath, had entrusted Baili Yan to Shen’s care, believing Shen, ‘the only man capable of truly anchoring a storm’, would protect him. The missive ended with a cryptic warning about ‘the fraying threads of the realm’ and ‘a burgeoning darkness’. Shen finished reading, then tucked the paper into his sleeve. The child, Baili Yan, was still snarling, a tiny, furious ball of spiritual energy. Shen was too tired for this. Too tired for cryptic warnings, too tired for responsibility, and certainly too tired for a demon-blooded child who looked like he wanted to bite off his finger. His entire existence was dedicated to avoiding precisely this kind of entanglement. He looked around, his gaze falling on the perpetually wobbly table where Tang Zongwu sat. One leg was notoriously shorter than the others, propped up by a thick, mildewed volume. It was an ancient cultivation booklet, its title faded beyond recognition, its pages brittle and moth-eaten. Perfect. “Here,” Shen said, passing the text to the snarling child. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Take this. Go sit in the courtyard. Practice the breathing exercises on page three until you feel calm. Or until I decide what to do with you.” He certainly was not going to let the child stay inside, disturbing his peace. Baili Yan, still wary, snatched the tome. His eyes flickered between the dusty pages and Shen’s impassive face. He seemed to expect further instructions, or perhaps a scolding. When none came, the child, clutching the leaves tightly, slipped into the quiet, overgrown garden behind the shop. Tang Zongwu watched the exchange, then raised an eyebrow at Shen. “Breathing exercises? That’s your solution? The boy looks like he could tear a spirit beast in half.” Shen merely shrugged, already settling back onto the bar top, angling for another nap. “It’s a start. Besides, it was propping up your table. Now it’s stable.” Minutes later, a dry heat began to bleed inward through the garden lattice. It was subtle at first, a faint shimmer in the air. Then, the tea kettle on the counter, filled with fresh spring water, began to bubble. Not gently, but a vigorous, rolling boil. Steam plumed from its spout, and the ornate porcelain teacups next to it grew too hot to touch. Shen’s eyes snapped open. He could feel it now, a tempest of Qi, raw and wild, erupting from the garden. It wasn’t a controlled spiritual resonance; it was a violent, chaotic vortex, tearing at the very fabric of the air. He pushed himself upright, startled out of his usual torpor. That moth-eaten volume… it was a flawed collection of tracts, full of dangerous, half-understood theories on Qi manipulation, which was why he’d used it as a table prop. Baili Yan, with his demon blood and raw hunger for direction, had taken the offhand advice to ‘practice breathing’ from the pages and somehow, with his untamed power, had followed the lethal instructions until he turned them into a volatile new discipline. And it was already threatening to turn the whole shop to ash.

The Wobbly Table