After a few rounds of Street Fighter II, the apartment air was thick with the smell of instant ramen and the sound of Henry gloating. He'd just managed a perfect parry. Blocking Daniel's final fireball with pixel-perfect precision before finishing him off with a Shoryuken.

  "I told you, you have to vary the timing!" Henry crowed, slamming his controller down. "You just keep throwing the same move!"

  "It's the most effective damage!" Daniel protested, rubbing his thumb where the controller had worn a blister. "And that was pure luck. You didn't even mean to parry that."

  "Skill, baby. Pure skill." Henry leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "You want to go again? I can keep embarrassing you all night."

  "We should probably get moving."

  Daniel glanced at the window. The light had shifted while they played, afternoon deepening into early evening. The blinds cast long shadows across Henry's bed, and the sounds from the kitchen had quieted. His parents settling in for the evening.

  Henry checked his watch. "Almost seven. Should be dark enough."

  "Yeah." Daniel stood. "Let's do it."

  They slipped out the back way, down the fire escape to avoid Henry's mom asking where they were going. The metal stairs rattled under their feet, rust flaking off the railings. The alley below smelled like the restaurant's dumpster. Rotten fish. Rotten food.

  Daniel held his nose, as they walked past.

  "This way," Henry said, walking through the backstreets.

  There was an old brick warehouse off Third Street, near where the shipping containers used to stack before the port operations moved south. The building had been condemned for years.

  Windows broken, "NO TRESPASSING" signs faded to near-illegibility, the letters bleached by sun and rain. Someone had cut a hole in the chain-link fence out back, the edges curled and rusted brown.

  "Used to skate here," Henry said, squeezing through the gap. His jacket caught on a wire, and he tugged it free with a ripping sound. "Shit. My mom's gonna kill me."

  "Nobody comes around?"

  "Not on weekends. Too dangerous. Whole thing's probably gonna collapse someday." Henry held the fence open for Daniel. "Watch your hands. The edges are sharp."

  Inside, the warehouse opened into a massive concrete space. High ceilings with exposed beams, rusted machinery left behind like industrial skeletons.

  The last light of evening came through the broken windows at a low angle, catching dust in the air. Graffiti covered the far wall with tags and names Daniel didn't recognize, layered over each other in faded colors. Someone had spray-painted a dragon, crude but recognizable, its body snaking across twenty feet of brick.

  The whole place smelled like old concrete and something chemical. Oil, maybe, or whatever had leaked from the machines before they were abandoned. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Somewhere deeper in the building, pigeons cooed and shuffled.

  "Cozy," Daniel said.

  "You wanted somewhere private."

  They cleared a spot near the center, kicking aside broken glass and chunks of plaster. Daniel swept a wider area with his foot, making sure there was nothing sharp. The concrete was cold through his jeans when he sat. Henry pulled out the printouts, smoothing them on the floor between them. The paper looked pale in the dim light.

  "Alright," Henry said, settling cross-legged across from Daniel. "My turn. Let's see if this qi thing is real or if you've been messing with me this whole time."

  Henry closed his eyes. Breathed slow. Following the same instructions Daniel had used. Attention to the lower abdomen, visualize a point of light, hold for three counts, exhale.

  Daniel watched him. Watched his chest rise and fall, watched his face for any sign of recognition. The way Daniel's own face must have looked when qi first appeared.

  Five minutes. Henry's breathing was steady, his posture good. But his face showed nothing. No surprise, no wonder, no sudden understanding.

  Ten minutes. Nothing.

  He shifted position, adjusted his posture. Tried again. His face scrunched in concentration, then relaxed, then scrunched again. A vein stood out on his forehead.

  "Anything?" Daniel asked.

  "I don't know. Maybe? There's like..." Henry trailed off, shook his head. "No. Nothing. Just my legs falling asleep."

  Fifteen minutes. Henry's shoulders were creeping up toward his ears. Tension building where there should be relaxation.

  "Try to relax your shoulders," Daniel said. "Let them drop."

  Henry adjusted. Breathed out slowly. His face smoothed into focus again.

  Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. Each attempt ending the same way. Henry breathing, waiting, hoping for something to happen. His frustration building with each failed try. The way his jaw tightened, the way he kept shifting his weight like the problem was physical, like he could find the right position if he just kept moving.

  "Maybe I'm doing it wrong," Henry muttered. "Show me again."

  Daniel demonstrated the breathing pattern. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Showed him where to focus attention. Below the ribs, center of the body. The dantian. Henry copied him exactly. Same rhythm, same posture, same visualization.

  Nothing.

  By the fourth attempt, they both knew. Whatever this was, Daniel could do it and Henry couldn't.

  Henry stood, brushing concrete dust off his jeans. His face was carefully neutral, but Daniel could see the disappointment underneath. The way he wouldn't quite meet Daniel's eyes.

  "Okay," Henry said. "You're definitely committed to the bit. I gotta respect the dedication."

  "I'm not acting." Daniel held up his notebook. "It's real. I don't know why it worked for me and not for you."

  "You know what? I'm not even mad." Henry threw his arms up, but the gesture was too big, too theatrical. Covering something. "That's how movies work, right? One guy figures it out, changes everything. The chosen one or whatever."

  He kicked a piece of plaster, watched it skitter across the floor into the shadows. "How'd you get so lucky?"

  Daniel wasn't sure if Henry was mocking him or being serious. Maybe both.

  "There has to be a reason," Daniel said. "You tried the same thing I did, but nothing happened. Maybe the conditions matter. We don't have a cushion here. The floor's cold. You were tired from gaming all afternoon."

  Henry raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me my butt is what's standing between me and ancient cosmic powers?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Maybe."

  "Guess I gotta hit the gym and align my ass with the cosmos." Henry laughed, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But now what? I can't do it."

  Daniel looked down at his hands. The qi was still there, somewhere inside him. He could feel it if he focused. That faint warmth in his core, like embers that hadn't quite gone out. Present even now, in this cold warehouse, surrounded by broken glass.

  "The qi I can feel," he said slowly. "It's not stable. It moves on its own, unpredictably. That first time, it just... exploded out of me."

  Henry's eyes widened. "Right. The wall."

  "So we need a way to control it. Or at least understand it better." Daniel tucked the printouts back into his pocket. "More research. Better instructions. Something."

  "Library tomorrow?"

  "I have work tomorrow."

  "I know."

  "So?"

  "Just call out sick." Henry spread his hands. "Dude, assuming this is all real, this is like the discovery of the century. Maybe the discovery of all time. Are you really going to be worried about stocking shelves at Mr. Zhao's?"

  Daniel thought about Mr. Zhao's shop. The familiar smell of dried goods and instant noodles, the routine of it. Normal life. Safe life. The kind of life where you didn't have to explain supernatural powers or mysterious energy coursing through your body.

  Then he thought about the qi humming in his chest. The fact that he couldn't unfeel what he'd felt, couldn't unknow what he now knew.

  "Yeah," he said. "Fuck it. I'm calling in."

  Monday morning. San Francisco Public Library, 9 AM.

  Daniel had called in sick from a payphone on Market Street. The phone booth smelled like cigarettes and something worse, though he tried not to think about it. He dropped in a quarter, dialed the shop, waited through four rings.

  "Wei?"

  "Mr. Zhao, it's Daniel. I'm not feeling well today. I don't think I can come in."

  Silence on the line. Daniel could picture Mr. Zhao's face. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the way he always knew when someone wasn't telling him the whole truth. Twenty years running a shop in Chinatown had given him a finely tuned bullshit detector.

  "You sound fine," Mr. Zhao said finally.

  "Stomach thing. Came on this morning. Probably something I ate."

  Another pause. Longer this time. "Okay. Rest. Come in tomorrow."

  The line clicked dead. Mr. Zhao hadn't believed him. Daniel could hear it in the flatness of those last words. But he'd accepted it, and that was enough. For now.

  Henry was waiting outside the library, backpack bulging with notebooks. He'd brought snacks. A bag of shrimp chips poking out of the side pocket, a bottle of green tea tucked under his arm. "Ready?"

  "Yeah."

  "You look nervous."

  "I'm fine."

  They headed inside, past the main desk where a librarian was sorting returns, and up the stairs to the computer terminals on the second floor. Three stations, all empty this early on a Monday.

  The library had that particular Monday-morning quiet.

  Daniel claimed the terminal in the corner. Henry pulled up a chair beside him, close enough to read over his shoulder.

  The computer took its time booting. Windows 95 loading screen, the little progress bar crawling across like it had somewhere better to be.

  Then the desktop, icons arranging themselves one by one. Daniel opened Netscape Navigator, typed in the Deja News URL, waited for the page to load line by line.

  rec.martial-arts appeared on screen.

  He navigated to the account creation page. Username field blinking, waiting.

  Daniel stared at it. There was something about choosing a name for this.

  Like the old kung fu movies where every martial artist had a title that meant something. Iron Palm. Drunken Fist. Flying Guillotine. Names that carried weight, that told you who someone was before they even moved.

  His fingers moved across the keyboard.

  HiddenDragon88

  Henry read over his shoulder and cringed. "HiddenDragon? Seriously? What are you, the chosen one?"

  "It sounds cool."

  "It sounds like a twelve-year-old picked it."

  "Then I'll fit right in on the internet."

  "I'm going to pretend I don't know you."

  Daniel ignored him, filled in the rest of the form, and navigated to the forum. New post. He typed carefully, keeping it vague. Nothing that would identify him or give away too much. Nothing about his location or his age.

  Subject: How To Control Qi

  From:

  For someone completely new to this. I've been having trouble controlling qi after I first feel it in my body. It feels wild and unpredictable. What should I do so it doesn't feel so uncontrollable?

  Any guidance appreciated.

  He hit post. The page refreshed, his message now visible in the thread list. One of dozens, sandwiched between questions about tournament rules and arguments about which style was superior.

  "Now we wait," Daniel said. "Could take hours for anyone to respond."

  "Then we use the time." Henry stood. "I saw something in the newspaper archives a few weeks ago when I found the forums. Third floor."

  Daniel followed him upstairs. The archive room was tucked in a back corner, quieter than the rest of the library. Metal shelving lined the walls, stuffed with bound volumes of newspapers going back decades. A single table sat in the center, lit by a single flickering light.

  Henry had already pulled several months of issues and left them on the table, pages marked with sticky notes. He'd been busy.

  "Look at these," Henry said, spreading them out.

  Daniel leaned over the table. Three articles, three different papers. Henry had circled key passages in pencil.

  "British Museum: Historical Chinese Text Missing From Archive." San Francisco Chronicle, July 5, 1997.

  "Taipei Museum Reports Theft: Qing Era Scrolls." News Wire, August 12, 1997.

  "Hong Kong: Private Collection Burglarized." International Herald, September 1, 1997.

  Same pattern in each one. Professionally executed, security systems disabled. No fingerprints, no witnesses, no leads. But selective. Specific texts about Taoist or Buddhist practices, meditation techniques, historical artifacts. Jewelry left behind. Computers untouched. More valuable art ignored.

  "They're not after money," Daniel said.

  "Nope." Henry tapped the Hong Kong article. "And look at what they're taking. Not just any old Chinese stuff. Specific things. Scrolls about internal practices. Meditation manuals. Stuff that sounds like..."

  "Like what we've been reading about."

  "Exactly." Henry lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the archive room. "Interpol called it 'oddly specific.' Said whoever's doing this knows exactly what they're looking for. Like they have a shopping list."

  Daniel stared at the clippings. Three thefts in three months. All targeting the same kind of material. Right when he was learning to feel qi for the first time.

  Coincidence. Had to be coincidence.

  But the timing nagged at him. The specificity of the targets. The professional execution.

  "You think it's connected?" he asked. "To what people are posting online?"

  "Maybe. Could be some rich collector with weird taste." Henry's eyes had that gleam again, the one he got when he was building a theory. "Or maybe someone's trying to grab all this knowledge before anyone else figures out it's real. Monopolize it. Control who gets access."

  "Could be coincidence."

  "Could be." Henry didn't sound convinced. "But three thefts, three months, three continents? All targeting the same obscure subject matter? That's a lot of coincidence."

  Daniel didn't have an answer for that. His breakthrough, the crack in his wall, the energy humming in his chest. Suddenly it felt less like a personal discovery and more like stumbling into something much bigger. Something already in motion long before he'd found that Usenet post.

  They went back downstairs. Daniel checked the forum. Two responses had appeared.

  From:

  Re: How To Control Qi

  @HiddenDragon88

  That wild, unpredictable feeling is normal when you first access qi.

  Typically, someone would guide you through breathing exercises to calm it down. But if you're practicing alone, the best method is Zhàn Zhuāng, or Standing Meditation.

  Standing Meditation builds a stable baseline. It teaches your body what its natural state should feel like. Calming turbulent qi the way a firm riverbed calms rushing water.

  Basic Zhàn Zhuāng: Stand with feet shoulder-width apart, toes pointing forward. Bend your knees slightly. Not a deep squat, just enough that your weight settles lower. Keep your back straight, chin slightly tucked.

  Raise your arms as if hugging a large tree. Elbows down and out, hands at chest height, fingers gently spread. Don't tense. Let your shoulders drop. Let your arms feel heavy but supported.

  Breathe naturally through your nose. Don't force anything.

  At first you'll feel your muscles burning. Thighs, shoulders, arms. This is normal. The body is learning to hold the posture. Stay with it as long as you can, even if it's only a few minutes.

  As you practice, something changes. The burning doesn't go away, but you'll start to feel a sense of groundedness. Like your body is sinking into the floor while your head rises toward the ceiling. This is finding your baseline.

  "The body sinks, the spirit rises, the self remains unmoved."

  That stable, grounded sensation is what pulls your qi back to normal when it becomes uncontrollable.

  From:

  Re: How To Control Qi

  @HiddenDragon88

  Phoenix is right about Standing Meditation. But don't neglect proper alignment during the posture. Hands match feet, elbows match knees, shoulders match hips.

  If your alignment is off, you're just standing there getting tired.

  We call this the Three External Harmonies in martial practice. And practice at the same time daily if you can. The body's qi follows natural cycles.

  Daniel read both responses twice. RisingPhoenix72's instructions were clear. Standing meditation, building a baseline, finding stability. Practical and specific.

  But JadeBeauty95's addition caught his attention. The Three External Harmonies. Hands match feet, elbows match knees, shoulders match hips. The kind of detail that came from actual practice, not just reading about it.

  He scrolled up to check her profile. Join date: 1995. Over two hundred posts, mostly in internal martial arts threads. Someone who'd been at this a while. Someone who might actually know what she was talking about.

  "Who's JadeBeauty95?" Henry asked, reading over his shoulder.

  "No idea. But she sounds legit."

  Daniel opened his notebook, wrote: Three External Harmonies. Hands/feet, elbows/knees, shoulders/hips. Alignment critical.

  Below that: Zhàn Zhuāng. Standing meditation. Build baseline. "Body sinks, spirit rises."

  "I should try this tonight," Daniel said.

  "The standing thing?"

  "Yeah. Zhàn Zhuāng." He closed the notebook. "See if it helps."

  He had a feeling he was going to need it.