3. Congratulations on Your New Goddess

I push myself up from the bench and head for the sect’s library. If I’m going to raise a reality-shaping goddess from a kitchen girl, I need to start studying.

They disperse, still murmuring, but obedient. I catch Feng’s eye; he looks curious about the sudden assembly, but I give him nothing. Later. I’ll deal with everyone later.

The afternoon passes in a blur of routine. I guide the disciples through their forms, offering corrections and encouragement with practiced ease. To Mei Lin, I suggest focusing on water manipulation precision rather than power. To Wei Chen, I recommend fire tempering exercises that play to his Earth/Fire mix. Small adjustments, nothing that would raise suspicion about my sudden insight.

But I notice something. A flicker of movement from the kitchen doorway. A small face peeking out, watching the training with wide, intent eyes. Ling’er. She’s tucked behind the doorframe, barely visible, observing the disciples with an intensity that most children her age couldn’t muster.

Then a hand reaches out and pulls her back inside. Old Chen, probably. Keeping her safe. Keeping her hidden.

I file that away and return to the training.

Feng trains with his usual intensity, pushing against the barrier that separates him from Foundation Establishment. Sweat drips down his face. His strikes are precise, powerful, desperate. I watch him for a long moment, then say nothing. What can I say? You’ll never make it without a Heaven-defying opportunity I don’t have? Better to let him hope a little longer.

By evening, I’m exhausted; not from the training, but from the weight of what I carry. A secret that could destroy my sect if discovered. A child who could reshape the world.

Night falls. The compound grows quiet. I wait until the last candles are extinguished, until the only sounds are crickets and the distant trickle of the mountain stream.

Then I send a servant to fetch Ling’er. She arrives at my door looking nervous, twisting her hemp sleeves in small, work-roughened hands. Inside my quarters, a single candle flickers on the desk. I’ve set out a bowl of rice and vegetables, more food than she probably gets in the kitchens.

“Sit,” I say gently. “Eat.”

She hesitates, then obeys, perching on the edge of the wooden stool. She eats quickly, like someone used to grabbing food when available. I wait until she’s finished before speaking.

“How long have you been with the sect, Ling’er?”

“One month and three days, Sect Leader.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then flushes at her own manners.

“Before that?”

“Orphanage in Greenstone Town. Before that…” She shrugs. “Don’t remember. I was little.”

“Family?”

“No, Sect Leader. Never had any.”

I nod slowly. An orphan. Like me. Like so many in the Lower Realm. The heavens have a cruel sense of humor, hiding cosmic potential in abandoned children.

I lean forward, choosing my words with care.

“Ling’er, I observed you today. In the training yard.”

Her eyes widen. “Sect Leader? I… I was just standing there.”

“No, after. When we were training. You were watching. Observing. Most children your age would fidget, whisper, draw attention. You stood still and watched. Do you know why I noticed?”

She shakes her head, confused.

“Because that’s what cultivators do. We observe. We learn. We see what others miss.” I pause. “Ling’er, I believe you have potential. Not the kind that comes from hard work alone, but the kind that’s born in someone. I think you could become far more than a kitchen assistant.”

I let the words hang in the air between us.

“Would you like that, Ling’er? Would you like to become a cultivator?”

Her breath catches. “I… Sect Leader, I’m mortal. I have no spirit root. The disciples said—”

“The disciples don’t know everything.” I hold up a hand, cutting her off gently.

Internally, I’m already calculating. I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not about dragon bloodlines or cosmic bones or reality-shaping potential. She’s twelve years old, malnourished, barely able to read. Dropping that weight on her now would crush her.

‘No. Information in doses. Trust built over time. That’s how you handle assets like this.’

“I’m not saying you’ll become a great cultivator tomorrow,” I continue. “I’m saying I see something in you worth nurturing. If you’re willing, I’d like to take you as my personal disciple.”

Silence. The candle flickers, casting dancing shadows across her small face.

“You mean… cultivate? Like the disciples?”

“Yes. It will be hard. Harder for you than for them, at first. You’ll need to strengthen your body before you can truly begin. But if you’re willing to work, truly work, I will guide you.”

She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for deception. For trickery. For the cruel joke that must be coming. Then her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Sect Leader. Please. I’ll work harder than anyone.”

“Good.” I rise, retrieving a simple meditation mat from the corner of my quarters. It’s old, worn thin in the center from decades of use, but it’ll serve. “Sit here. Tonight, we begin with the basics; not cultivation, but preparation. I’m going to teach you to feel your own qi. Close your eyes. Breathe.”

She settles onto the mat, small and serious, crossing her legs the way she’s probably seen the disciples do. Her back is straight, her hands resting on her knees, her eyes squeezed shut with the intensity of someone afraid this might be a dream that will shatter if she opens them. I take a breath of my own. This is the moment. The first test. Not for her but for me.

I have forty years of this body’s memories. I know the techniques. I’ve guided dozens of disciples through this exact exercise. But knowing and doing are different things, and right now, with this child, I have to get it right. I place my hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. She’s so thin I can feel each knob of her spine. Her body is warm through the rough hemp, warmer than it should be.

“Breathe in,” I say, my voice low and steady. “Feel the air fill your lungs. Don’t force it, just let it come naturally. Good. Now breathe out, and as you do, imagine warmth gathering in your belly. A small warmth. Like a coal from the kitchen fire.”

Her breathing evens out. Slow. Rhythmic.

“In again. Feel the air. Out again. Gather the warmth.”

Twenty minutes pass. Nothing happens. The candle burns lower. My knees ache from kneeling on the hard floor.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Maybe this body’s memories aren’t enough. Maybe I’m just a twenty-year-old gamer playing pretend at being a sect leader, and any moment now she’ll open her eyes and see me for the fraud I am—

“Sect Leader?”

Her voice is small, uncertain, barely above a whisper.

“I… there’s something. But it’s not where you said. It’s… higher. Here.”

She touches her chest, just below her throat. Right where the sternum meets the collarbone.

I keep my face calm, but my mind is racing. The bone. It has to be. Or maybe the dragon bloodline, manifesting in a different meridian pathway? I don’t know enough. I don’t know anything.

“Show me,” I say calmly. “Don’t force it. Just let the warmth flow where it wants to go.”

She closes her eyes again.

I watch.

Color returns to her cheeks; more than should be possible from twenty minutes of basic meditation. Her skin, pale and sallow moments ago, takes on a healthy glow that would take normal cultivators weeks of dedicated practice to achieve. Her breathing deepens, slows, becomes something almost meditative.

And then I feel it.

A hum. Barely perceptible, like a plucked string too deep to hear but too powerful to ignore. It vibrates through my hand where it rests on her back, through the floor beneath my knees, through the very air of the room. The candle flickers wildly, then steadies.

Ling’er gasps, eyes flying open.

“There’s… something there. In my chest. It’s like a stone, but it’s… warm? And moving? I can feel it pulling at the warmth.”

I withdraw my hand slowly, processing.

Dragon bloodline and Sacred Cosmic Bone, interacting with basic qi circulation for the first time. A mortal body, suddenly hosting forces it was never meant to contain. I’ve read about constitution awakenings. Every sect leader studies the basics. But this is different. This is unprecedented. This is a twelve-year-old girl with no training, no preparation, no foundation, touching forces that would kill most cultivators instantly.

I need to be careful. Incredibly careful. One wrong move and I’ll burn her out before she begins.

“Good,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Very good. That’s exactly what should happen.” It’s not, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Now, does the warmth feel painful? Pleasant? Strange?”

“Strange,” she says. Her eyes are still wide, still unfocused, like she’s seeing something just beyond the edge of normal vision. “Not painful. Just… big. Like there’s more inside me than there should be.”

“Then we stop for tonight.” I rise, my knees protesting, and cross to my desk. I make a note on a scrap of paper: morning meals, extra portions—and tuck it into my sleeve. “Your body needs time to adjust. Tomorrow, we’ll try again, but shorter. You’ll eat more, I’ll arrange it with the kitchens and Old Chen. And you’ll do physical training every morning to strengthen your body.”