Arthur Blackwood squinted into the rising dawn from a cliffside ledge, the distant mountains cast in hues of gold and violet. For a moment, it all felt like an elaborate dream—a picturesque vision of his old hiking trips in the Lake District back in England. But the chill in his bones, the unfamiliar weight of his sword, and the steady hum of qi pulsing through his body reminded him just how far from Manchester he truly was.
It had been a year since he was whisked away from the comfort of his cozy flat and thrown into this treacherous world of cultivation, a world where power wasn't measured by intellect or position but by the strength of one's dantian and mastery over the mysterious, potent energy called qi. In all his years teaching history at an ordinary British school, Arthur had never once considered that he'd be facing down savage beasts, learning swordplay, or enduring brutal qi exercises that wrung him out physically and mentally every single day.
Why he stayed was something he asked himself often—especially on mornings like this. He could have left, abandoned the life of a cultivator, or begged Madam Wu, his inscrutable teacher, to send him back. But a question nagged at him, one that had whispered to him since childhood: What if there's something more? Something worth the struggle? And every day, he couldn't resist that question's call.
Madam Wu's sharp voice sliced through the crisp morning air, breaking his reverie. "Arthur! Do you plan to meditate all day, or will you train?"
Arthur winced. The pain from his last sparring session still throbbed in his side, a dull ache where a particularly unfriendly cultivator had thrown him into a tree. Training here wasn't optional, nor was it gentle.
"Yes, Madam Wu," he replied, trudging over to the training field. In his own world, she would have been a professor—a graying woman with a stern look and a clipboard, perhaps. Here, she was an enigma wrapped in sharp words and a dangerous aura of power. Her past was a mystery, and prying questions had only earned him extra hours of harsh drills.
But she'd saved his life more than once, and grudgingly, he respected her more than any mentor he'd known.
"Your stance is still wrong," she barked as he gripped his sword. "Are you trying to fight, or dance?"
"Both?" he muttered under his breath, earning himself a whack on the head.
"Humor won't keep you alive," she snapped. "I've seen mortals more capable than you fall for less. Remember—balance, both in body and mind. If you want to survive, you have to be one with the weapon, one with the qi."
He sighed, adjusting his posture, and focused. His body ached, his muscles screamed, but he bore down, determined to prove himself, if only to quiet his doubts. Every time he considered giving up, he remembered the faces of the other cultivators around him—most of them younger, quicker, native to this world where strength meant survival. They barely tolerated his presence, a foreigner barely scraping by with his novice cultivation, constantly stumbling in rituals and customs he couldn't fully grasp.