Chapter 8: So Apparently, I’m Allergic to Cultivation

The day began with optimism.

Which was mistake number one.

I had decided — foolishly — that if I was going to be the Patriarch of the Shen Clan, I should probably learn to do something Patriarch-like.

Like cultivating.

You know, the thing everyone in this world does to throw mountains and punch ghosts.

How hard could it be?

Spoiler: Very.

The Shen Clan’s training grounds were built into a naturally flat cliff ledge. Tall bamboo. Wind chimes. Birds chirping like they didn’t pay rent.

Standing at the center was a woman whose mere presence made the birds fly away out of fear.

She wore white robes with silver trim, hair pinned in a sleek coil. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes were sharper than most weapons. She looked like she could kill someone with a tea leaf.

This was Instructor Yao Qing — the clan’s Head Martial Instructor.

And, apparently, my teacher for the day.

Lucky me.

“So,” I said as I approached, “how does this work? Is there a manual? An app?”

She did not laugh.

She did not blink.

She simply looked at me and said, “Sit.”

I sat.

“Close your eyes.”

Done.

“Breathe.”

Already doing that.

“Focus on the flow of Qi in the atmosphere.”

Okay, cool, let me just—wait. Where’s the Qi?

“Now,” she continued, voice calm as a still lake, “reach out with your spiritual sense. Visualize your dantian. Guide the Qi inward.”

…

…

“…Nothing’s happening.”

“Try again.”

I tried again.

Nothing.

Not a spark. Not a tingle. Not a whisper of Qi.

It was like trying to charge a phone by holding it near a tree.

Yao Qing frowned.

She placed a hand near my back, to guide my flow.

Her brow furrowed deeper.

“…Strange.”

She pressed harder.

Then abruptly pulled her hand away, staring at it like it had touched something foul.

“Did it work?” I asked.

“No,” she said flatly.

Then she turned to her assistant and said, in a voice that carried death:

“Fetch the suppression chains and emergency talismans.”

“…Why?”

“You might explode.”

“Explode?!”

“Inwardly. Spiritually. Possibly externally. Unclear.”

They brought talismans. One stuck to my forehead. Another went on my back. A third was shoved in my sleeve “just in case.”

Instructor Yao stood five meters away now. Her assistant held a containment orb.

The hell was going on?

She gave me a long look and said carefully, “Patriarch Shen… have you ever been struck by lightning?”

“…Not yet.”

She made a note on her scroll.

“Have you been cursed?”

“No. But I did once step on seven nails in a row.”

“Any history of demonic possession?”

“Unless my double agent cover counts, no.”

She gave me the kind of look that said, ‘You are a threat to spiritual health and safety.’

Eventually, I tried again.

This time, I did feel something.

A faint hum. A glimmer of pressure.

I focused on it… reached for it…

And suddenly—

BOOM.

The bamboo behind me exploded.

Not just bent — exploded.

Leaves flew. A squirrel launched into the air screaming. Someone’s washing line was set on fire.

Yao Qing’s robe fluttered like she was standing in a wind tunnel.

She calmly reaffixed her hairpin and said, “Fascinating.”

After the dust settled, she approached me again.

“You are… very unique.”

“That sounds like a polite way of saying cursed.”

“You have no natural resonance with Qi. When it enters you, it loses harmony. Disrupts the flow.”

“…So I have spiritual indigestion?”

“More like… Qi rejection syndrome.”

She scribbled again on her scroll.

“Subject: Shen Liang. Diagnosis: Cultivation allergy. Potential: Dangerous. Treatment: Fireproof robes.”

I stood slowly, brushing ash off my sleeve.

“So I can’t cultivate?”

“No,” she said. “You can.”

I brightened.

“Eventually. After years of specialized techniques, daily cleansing rituals, and possibly divine intervention.”

I blinked.

“…Great. So by the time I reach the first level, everyone else will be flying.”

At the end of the session, I was covered in soot, had three talismans attached to my ribs, and smelled like burnt tea leaves.

I turned to Yao Qing and said, “So. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?”

She considered.

“For a normal person? Ten.”

“And for me?”

“…”

“…A spiritual war crime?”

She nodded once.

As I limped back toward my courtyard, a squirrel dove into a bush at the sight of me.

I muttered to myself:

“Okay, so I’m a broke Patriarch with a Qi-disrupting body and the cultivation potential of wet cardboard. But at least I didn’t explode. Today.”

Small victories.

[End of Chapter 8]