Two days since the hospital. Daniel couldn't keep food down.

  He'd try to eat. Rice, soup, even just dry toast. His stomach would seize up before he finished the third bite, that deep pain from before flaring back to life like coals that refused to go cold.

  This morning he'd managed half a bowl of congee before giving up. The taste of it still sat in the back of his throat like his body had forgotten how to process food.

  The internal bleeding Dr. Wang had found should be healing by now. Two days was enough time for minor trauma to start knitting itself back together. But the nausea was getting worse, not better.

  Daniel pulled out the business card. Cream-colored paper, worn soft at the edges from handling. 和堂. Harmony Hall. Traditional medicine.

  Li Qinghua had given him this card at the hospital. Told him to come by if the pain got worse.

  It was worse.

  "I haven't been to a Chinese medicine store since I was a kid," Henry said. They stood outside the shop on Jackson Street, the familiar sounds of Chinatown around them. Traffic. Cantonese chatter. The clatter of dishes from a nearby restaurant. "My mom took me when I got a cold once. They gave me this black goo to drink every few hours. Tasted like dirt and sadness."

  "Can't eat regular food anyway," Daniel said. "Besides, it can't hurt to try."

  The shop's window had the characters 和堂 painted in gold on the glass, elegant brushwork that caught the afternoon light. "Harmony Hall - Traditional Chinese Medicine" in smaller English letters underneath. Neat rows of glass jars filled with dried herbs lined the display. Ginseng roots twisted into shapes that looked almost human. Dried mushrooms. Things Daniel couldn't identify, brown and withered and somehow ancient-looking.

  A small bell chimed as he pushed open the door.

  The smell hit him first. Earthy and sharp, with undertones of menthol and something sweet he couldn't place. Dried flowers, maybe. Or tree bark steeped in honey. The smell of tannin and turned earth.

  Wooden drawers with brass handles lined the walls from floor to ceiling, hundreds of them, each labeled in flowing Chinese characters. Names of herbs Daniel half-recognized from stories. Names he'd never heard, remedies for ailments that didn't have English translations. The drawers were worn smooth at the handles from decades of opening and closing, generations of hands reaching for the same cures.

  Li Qinghua stood behind a wooden counter, grinding herbs in a stone mortar. Gray hair in a simple bun. Traditional clothes, dark blue silk with subtle phoenix embroidery. The same watchful expression, like she was always measuring something invisible.

  She glanced up when the bell chimed. Nodded once.

  "Please, sit," she said in Cantonese. Her voice carried that old-fashioned formality Daniel remembered. Precise.

  She gestured to a small table in the corner where a tea set waited. Ceramic pot glazed in pale green, cups no bigger than thimbles, steam rising gently into the dusty afternoon light.

  Daniel crossed the shop and sat down. The chair was wooden, hard, the kind that forced good posture whether you wanted it or not. Henry followed but got distracted by the jars lining the walls, his curiosity overcoming his usual caution.

  "What's this stuff?" Henry picked up a jar, peering at the dried contents inside.

  "Don't touch." Li Qinghua's voice cracked like a whip.

  Henry put it down so fast he almost dropped it. "Sorry. Sorry."

  She continued to pound the mortar with a pestle, the rhythm steady and unhurried. Whatever she was grinding released a sharp green smell into the air.

  "You." She pointed the pestle at Henry without looking up. "Sit properly."

  Henry practically fell into the chair next to Daniel, adjusting his posture, trying to sit straighter. His spine hadn't been that vertical since grade school picture day.

  Daniel watched Li Qinghua move between the tables in the store, gathering additional herbs into the mortar. Each step placed exactly where it needed to be, no wasted motion. The grinding rhythm never varied in speed or pressure, like a metronome made of flesh and bone.

  "You see it," Li Qinghua said, setting down the mortar and lifting a teacup from the corner of the table. It wasn't a question. She poured tea with deliberate grace, the stream thin and controlled, not a drop wasted. "Movement is about balance. When the body is in harmony, illness cannot take root. When the mind is calm, the spirit can heal."

  She slid a cup toward Daniel. The ceramic was warm against his fingers.

  "This is chrysanthemum tea. Good for clearing heat and calming the liver."

  Daniel wrapped his hands around the cup. The warmth felt good, spreading through his palms into his wrists. The conversation already felt like a test, though he wasn't sure what was being measured.

  "Thank you."

  They sat in silence for a moment. Li Qinghua sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of her cup. Her gaze missed nothing. The way he held himself, guarding his stomach. The pallor of his skin. The slight tremor in his hands that came from not eating properly for two days.

  "You look worse now than at the hospital," she said finally.

  "Yeah." Daniel set down the cup. "I can't eat. Everything just... my stomach won't take it. Like something's blocking it."

  "Let me see."

  She rose from her chair and crossed to where he sat. Her fingers found a point on his side, just below his ribs. Pressed.

  Daniel gasped. Sharp, wrong pain, like she'd found a bruise that went all the way through to his spine.

  "Here?"

  "Yeah."

  She pressed another point. Lower, closer to his stomach. Same sensation, that deep wrongness that had nothing to do with surface injury. Her fingers moved to his abdomen, pressing carefully, systematically.

  The nausea hit immediately. Daniel swallowed hard, fighting to keep down the congee he'd managed that morning.

  Li Qinghua pulled back. Considered his face. The sweat breaking out on his forehead, the way his jaw clenched. Then pressed again, lighter this time, watching his reaction with methodical attention.

  "How did this happen?" she asked.

  "Got into a fight."

  "With whom?"

  Daniel hesitated. "Someone wearing a mask."

  Li Qinghua was quiet. She returned to her chair and sipped her tea. The shop was silent except for the clock ticking on the wall, an old thing with a swinging pendulum that looked like it had been keeping time since before the earthquake. Outside, someone called out in Cantonese. A car passed, engine rattling.

  "Your meridians are blocked," she said finally. "Several points along the stomach and liver channels. The flow is disrupted."

  "What does that mean?"

  "In Chinese medicine, when these channels are blocked, the body cannot function properly." She set down her cup, the ceramic clicking against the saucer. "Food cannot be processed. Waste cannot be expelled. The body begins to poison itself."

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  Daniel's stomach lurched. "That sounds bad."

  "It would be, if left untreated. But this kind of disruption will clear naturally as your body restores balance. These blocks are not permanent."

  "How long?"

  "Weeks. Perhaps a few months at most."

  "Can you help? Speed it up?"

  "I can give you herbs." She stood and moved to the wall of drawers, her steps silent on the wooden floor. "They promote circulation, help restore harmony." She began pulling open drawers, selecting dried herbs with practiced efficiency. "But your body must do the healing itself. The herbs only assist what is already happening."

  She brought the herbs back to the counter and began measuring portions into small paper packets, the same amount in each, her hands never hesitating.

  Daniel watched her work. The certainty in every movement. The way she handled the herbs like she'd been doing this for fifty years. Because she probably had.

  Dr. Wang had found the internal bleeding, but he couldn't explain why the nausea kept getting worse when the bleeding itself was minor. Regular medicine saw the symptoms but missed the cause.

  But Li Qinghua wasn't talking about regular medicine. She was talking about meridians. Energy flow. Balance. Traditional Chinese Medicine concepts.

  What if she knew something about qi?

  The risk sat heavy in his chest. He'd been careful. Hadn't told anyone except Henry, partly to protect himself, partly because who would believe him anyway? Henry's ideas about secret government programs had made him paranoid about hidden conspiracies, though that seemed less likely now. If there were international criminals with qi fighters. Wouldn't that mean this was more normal than he thought?

  But Li Qinghua had helped him at the hospital. Stayed with him. Probably helped save his life. If she'd wanted to hurt him, she'd had her chance.

  And if she did know something, if she could actually help, it would hurt more not to try.

  "What about..." Daniel stopped. Started again, choosing his words carefully. "Would you happen to know anything about qi?"

  Her eyebrows rose slightly. "How can I not? I am Chinese. I practice traditional medicine." She set down the packet she was folding. "Qi is the foundation of everything. Health, longevity, life itself. Why do you ask?"

  "Not that kind of qi." Daniel leaned forward. How could he explain this? "Real qi. Like internal energy. The kind martial artists use in old stories."

  "Those are just old stories." Her voice was flat. Dismissive. "You can't really expect someone to do those things."

  "But what if it wasn't just stories?" Daniel pressed. "What if someone could actually do it?"

  Li Qinghua watched him. Caution in her gaze, maybe. Or recognition.

  "If we're speaking hypothetically," she said slowly, "about old stories and legends... then such a person would need to achieve 先天. Xiāntiān. The innate state. What the ancients called returning to prior heaven."

  She set down her cup.

  "Most tales have a martial hero begin in Hòutiān. 后天. The acquired state. Learning forms, memorizing techniques. The mind directing every movement, controlling every breath. This is where all practitioners start. A master of Hòutiān is the pinnacle of a human's potential."

  She took a sip of tea.

  "But true mastery is Xiāntiān. When you forget what you learned. When the body knows without thinking. When movement becomes as natural as breathing, as automatic as the beating of your heart. To become more than human. Something akin to a god." She paused. "Most practitioners in these stories train for decades and never make this return. It is only in Xiāntiān that a person can even begin to use qi in the way you describe."

  "Why do you ask?"

  Daniel's throat was dry. He forced the words out. "I might be able to do it."

  "Do what, exactly?"

  "Use qi. Real qi."

  Silence. Li Qinghua's face gave nothing away, but her gaze sharpened.

  "How?" she asked. "And where did you learn?"

  "I found it on the internet," Daniel said. "A Usenet group about martial arts."

  Li Qinghua's face went blank. "In... ter... net?"

  "It's a computer network. You type messages and they go through phone lines to other computers anywhere in the world. People form groups to discuss topics. Martial arts, programming, music, anything. Someone posted a basic exercise for sensing qi, and I..." He trailed off. "I followed the instructions. And it worked."

  "Like a letter," Henry added helpfully. "But anyone in the world can read it. And respond."

  "A network of computers," Li Qinghua said slowly, as if tasting each word. "That allows strangers to share knowledge across distances."

  "Yeah."

  She frowned deeply. Shook her head as if dismissing the strangeness of it. The modern world intruding on ancient knowledge.

  "And this exercise. Explain it to me."

  Daniel pulled out his battered notebook, pages soft from handling, and walked her through it. The breathing pattern. The focus on the dantian. The visualization of energy gathering and circulating through the body.

  Li Qinghua's frown deepened with each sentence. Not confusion. Something else.

  "I'm telling you what I did." Daniel's jaw tightened. "I followed the instructions, I practiced, and it worked."

  She studied him. Said nothing.

  Then she stood. Moved to an open space in the center of the shop, between the display cases and the wall of drawers.

  "May I see it?"

  Daniel rose. Moved to an open space near the window where the afternoon light fell in dusty columns. Settled his feet shoulder-width apart. Hands loose at his sides.

  He closed his eyes. Breathed. In through the nose, deep into the belly. Hold. Exhale slowly through the mouth.

  The warmth built in his dantian. Familiar now, like greeting an old friend. The sensation of qi gathering, pooling, beginning to circulate through his meridians despite the blocks the fox mask had left behind.

  Li Qinghua watched in silence. Daniel could feel her attention like a physical weight. Her gaze tracked his breathing. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his shoulders stayed relaxed even as energy moved through him. The slight shift in his posture as his weight settled, rooting into the floor.

  Then her posture changed.

  She leaned forward. Her head tilted slightly, like she was listening to something only she could hear. Something that had nothing to do with sound.

  Her eyes widened.

  She stumbled back a step. Caught herself against the counter, her hand knocking the mortar. Dried herbs scattered across the wood, green and brown fragments spinning across the surface.

  "Impossible," she whispered.

  Daniel's eyes snapped open. The circulation broke, qi dissipating back into his body. "Are you okay?"

  She didn't answer. Just stared at him. Through him. Her breathing had gone shallow, rapid.

  "Hey, easy." Henry half-rose from his chair, ready to catch her if she fell.

  Li Qinghua didn't seem to hear. She turned away, looking toward the shop window. The afternoon light made the dust motes visible in the air, golden particles suspended in sunbeams like stars in amber.

  Her shoulders dropped. Her posture changed. Decades of careful control cracking, just for a moment.

  "It was real," she said quietly. More to herself than to them. "All of it. Not for nothing."

  She stood there. Still. Her gaze fixed on something far away. A memory, maybe. A hope.

  Daniel exchanged a glance with Henry. Neither of them spoke. The clock ticked on the wall. Outside, a car horn honked. Normal sounds from a normal world that suddenly felt very far away.

  Then Li Qinghua straightened. Drew in a breath. Turned back to face them with her composure restored, though a new light remained in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

  She walked to the center of the shop. Composed herself. Smoothed her clothes.

  Then she bowed. Formal. Deep. The kind of bow Daniel had only seen in old movies, the kind that meant something.

  "Take this as gratitude from an old woman who thought she would never see such a thing."

  Daniel stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands. "Uh, you don't need to bow to me."

  "You've shown me something I thought I'd never see." Her voice was steady now, controlled, but with a new warmth underneath. She straightened. "When did you learn this?"

  "About a month ago."

  "A month." She nodded slowly. Walked back to her chair and sat down, her hands folding in her lap. She stared at the scattered herbs on the counter but didn't move to clean them.

  The silence stretched. Heavy with things unspoken.

  Daniel thought about RisingPhoenix72's posts. How he'd said that legitimate masters still existed somewhere. Teachers with unbroken lineages who preserved the complete martial arts. Not just imitations, but real knowledge passed down through generations.

  Was she one of them?

  "Are you a martial arts master?" Daniel asked. "Could you teach me?"

  "A master?" She chuckled, soft and rueful. "No. I'm not a martial arts master. I couldn't help you, even if I wanted to."

  "But you just felt it. You sensed my qi without even touching me. You know something."

  "What you are asking is beyond my ability." Her voice was gentle. "You are already far beyond what I thought was possible."

  She paused, considering her words.

  "Think of it this way." She gestured to the teacup in front of him. "You can drink this tea, feel its warmth, taste its flavor. But that doesn't mean you know how to grow the flowers, how to dry them properly, how to prepare the blend yourself. I recognized what you did. But recognition is not mastery."

  She poured another cup of tea, the motion automatic.

  "Besides, I'm just an old woman who runs an herb shop. What can I teach you that you don't already know? You've already learned everything you needed from those computer letters."

  Daniel's hands clenched in his lap. "But it isn't like that. I don't have advanced knowledge. I have descriptions, theories, fragments. I'm always missing something. Always guessing."

  He thought about everything she'd said. Everything she hadn't said.

  "And somehow... I get the feeling you might be able to help me fill in the gaps."

  Li Qinghua was quiet. She turned back to the herb packets on the counter. Began tying them with string, her movements careful, unhurried.

  "Please," Daniel said.

  The clock ticked.

  "...if you have a question or two," she said finally, not looking at him, "I don't mind answering. If it's something old, I'll probably know."

  Daniel's breath caught.

  "It's the least I can do." She finished tying the packets. Set them on the counter. "Take these. Brew one packet in hot water each morning and evening. The taste will be bitter, but drink it all."

  Daniel picked up the packets. They were lighter than they looked. "Thank you."

  "Come back in a week. When you're feeling better." She met his eyes, and an understanding passed between them. A beginning. "We can talk more then."

  Daniel nodded.

  Henry stood. Daniel followed him to the door, the packets tucked carefully in his jacket pocket.

  The bell chimed as they stepped outside. The afternoon sun was warm on Daniel's face after the dim interior of the shop, the air fresh after the heavy smell of herbs.

  They walked toward the bus stop in silence.

  Daniel looked back once. Through the shop window, Li Qinghua was picking up the scattered herbs from the counter. One by one. Her movements still careful. Still controlled.

  But she was smiling.