Jian stood before the rice cooker like a man about to defuse a bomb. The metal pot gleamed with the threat of both dinner and disaster. Sheng Tai hovered above the phone nearby, arms crossed, expression grim.
"This time," the old spirit said, "we approach the sacred art with reverence. And gloves."
"I'm not wearing gloves to make soup, Grandpa."
"You're not making soup. You're refining a Focus Pill."
"With lemon peel?"
"It stimulates mental clarity. Combined with cinnamon and a dash of acidic catalyst—"
"Vinegar?"
"—yes, you shall awaken your Qi like a morning bell in the mind-palace."
Jian sighed and lined up his ingredients:
• Ground cinnamon
• Dried lemon peel
• A teaspoon of vinegar
• A drop of honey ("for balance," Sheng Tai insisted)
• Filtered water
He dropped everything into the rice cooker.
"Begin heat at medium flame," Sheng Tai ordered.
"It's electric."
"Modern tribulation furnace. I approve."
The rice cooker began to hum. Bubbles formed. Steam hissed.
"Now," Sheng Tai said solemnly, "circulate your Qi. Let it infuse the concoction."
Jian placed his palms near the cooker, closed his eyes, and visualized golden threads spiraling into the bubbling mess.
For a moment, all was calm.
Then—bloop.
Then—HSSSSSSS.
Then—PFFFWOOMP.
A puff of foul-smelling steam erupted from the lid, smelling like burnt cinnamon, wet socks, and regret.
"Abort! Cease infusion!"
Jian yelped and pulled the plug. The cooker hissed like an angry dragon. Smoke curled out in odd shapes—one briefly resembled a chicken.
Jian stood with a wooden spoon in hand like a soldier fresh from battle. The kitchen stank of vinegar and scorched citrus. He fanned the lingering mist toward the open window.
"Well," he muttered, "that went sideways."
"Sideways is progress in disguise," Sheng Tai declared, drifting serenely near the counter. "A good alchemist learns most from the explosions."
"I think my eyebrows learned something."
Jian peered into the rice cooker again. The sticky mass had congealed slightly and now shimmered with a faint, unpredictable glow—like someone had stirred glitter into glue and infused it with mild regret.
"What even is that?"
Sheng Tai hovered closer, then produced a ghostly monocle from thin air. "A quasi-stabilized mental stimulant. Roughly equivalent to a half-formed Focus Pill."
"Like… a Focus Sludge?"
"Your terminology wounds me, but yes."
Jian poked the substance with the chopstick again. It jiggled ominously, then hissed.
"I don't think this thing is stable."
"Of course it's not. But instability leads to refinement. Keep it sealed. Let it ferment."
"Ferment?!"
"In spiritual terms. Not literally. Though… who knows."
Jian sealed the concoction in an old peanut butter jar, labeled it 'Focus Blob v2', and stuck it at the back of the fridge next to some expired kimchi.
He turned back to Sheng Tai. "What did we do wrong?"
"Your vinegar ratio was off. The Qi infusion lacked clarity. And you sneezed during the visualization."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything. Even your socks, which do not match."
Jian looked down. One banana, one galaxy print. "Cultivator's whimsy."
"Cultivator's laundry basket negligence."
They stared at the rice cooker for a moment. It gurgled once, then fell silent.
"Should I… clean it?"
"No. Let it cool. That cooker is now a spiritual node. Use it wisely."
"It's a kitchen appliance, not a magic cauldron."
"It's both. Respect its dual nature."
Jian sighed, sat down at the table, and pulled out his notebook. Across the top, he scribbled: Lesson 13 – Exploding Isn't Failing (But Maybe Next Time Less Vinegar)
The next morning, Jian woke to the sound of birds, school alarms, and his own stomach growling like a beast denied dumplings. As he shuffled to the fridge in search of breakfast, his eyes landed on the peanut butter jar.
Focus Blob v2.
"…Huh."
He tapped the glass. The contents jiggled politely.
Jian debated for exactly three seconds, then unscrewed the lid and scooped a pinkie-tip-sized portion.
"If this kills me, I blame Douyi Alchemy."
He swallowed.
The taste was… aggressively herbal, like licking a spiced candle but within few moments, a gentle buzz bloomed in his temples—not painful, just sharp. The fog in his brain lifted. His thoughts felt crisp, like leaves snapping in autumn.
"…Whoa."
He dashed to his notebook, flipped it open, and began copying today's math problems. Normally, this would take him thirty minutes and two breakdowns. Today, he finished in ten—with legible handwriting.
Sheng Tai emerged from the phone, arms folded.
"You dosed yourself?"
"Microdosed. Just enough to survive algebra."
"Foolish. Bold. Effective."
Jian beamed. "I feel like a cultivation genius."
"You are a reckless sugar addict with minor talent. Still—acceptable."
Later that day, at school, Jian offered a tiny scoop of Focus Blob v2 to his seatmate, Wei Liang, who was currently drooling into his textbook.
"Try this. It's… experimental."
Wei sniffed it. "Is this food?"
"Cultivator-approved."
"Sounds like a stomachache."
Wei tasted it anyway. Ten minutes later, he raised his hand and correctly answered three math questions in a row. Their teacher blinked. So did the class.
"Bro," Wei whispered, "what was in that?"
"Focus."
"I can sort of see numbers."
"Side effect."
That night, Jian found Sheng Tai floating over his phone like a proud but concerned parent.
"You must refine it further. It's still volatile."
"But it works."
"It works unpredictably. One day it might give visions. The next? Diarrhea."
"…Yeah, I'm gonna add that warning label."
He picked up a sticky note and scribbled:
WARNING: Side effects may include clarity, rapid math ability, and unexpected bowel awakenings.
Sheng Tai nodded solemnly. "The first step to mastery… is caution."
"And the second step is probably ginger."
"No chili."
"Fine."
That night, the apartment settled into its usual nighttime rhythm — the hum of the fridge, distant traffic, and the faint hiss of tea boiling on the stove.
Jian sat by the window, sipping a mug of honey-ginger tea. The Focus Blob v2 sat glowing softly in the fridge like a jar of enlightenment — or disaster — depending on who you asked.
Sheng Tai floated nearby, arms folded inside his sleeves.
"You've made progress," the ghostly alchemist said.
"I exploded the kitchen."
"That's practically a rite of passage."
Jian chuckled. "You're not mad?"
"Oh, I am furious," Sheng Tai replied dryly. "But also… proud. You risked, refined, and revised. That is the core of alchemy."
"I thought the core was patience."
"That too. But patience without experimentation is just spiritual constipation."
Jian made a face. "Please don't ever say that again."
They sipped tea together — well, Jian did. Sheng Tai only hovered meaningfully near the steam.
"You know," Jian said, watching a car pass under the streetlight, "I used to think cultivation was all about glowing swords and flying on clouds."
"It can be," Sheng Tai said, "but the true Dao lies in the details. The tea you brew, the food you stir, the thoughts you hold when you're alone at night."
Jian looked down at his tea. The steam curled like gentle tendrils of Qi. He felt calm. Centered.
"Do you think I'll ever really get good at this?"
Sheng Tai looked at him — for once, not sarcastic or grumpy, but quiet and sincere.
"You already are."
Jian blinked. "Seriously?"
"You are clumsy, unrefined and easily distracted by snacks but the Dao answers to sincerity. And you… are sincere."
Jian felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with ginger or Qi.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
"Don't thank me yet. We begin spiritual training tomorrow."
"…Can I finish my tea first?"
"For now."
Outside the window, the moon shone down like a white coin of silent approval. Inside, a boy, a ghost, and a mug of tea sat quietly — a strange family bound by spirit and screen.
And somewhere, deep in the fridge, a blob of cinnamon-infused chaos glowed softly, waiting for its next moment to shine.