Three days passed without change.

  Morning training.

  Spirit rice distribution.

  Evening meditation.

  Zhao Rui’s second circulation stabilized.

  Not flawless.

  But consistent.

  Whispers in the courtyard returned—quiet admiration this time.

  Instructor Han no longer stood beside him.

  That alone meant recognition.

  —

  Shen An’s routine did not alter.

  One circulation.

  Stop.

  Rest.

  Observe.

  But on the fourth night, something shifted.

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  Not externally.

  Internally.

  When he drew Qi into his dantian, the core responded—

  Instantly.

  Too instantly.

  There was no gradual sinking.

  No layering.

  The Qi entered—

  And dispersed.

  Not leaking.

  Not escaping.

  Simply… unable to compress further.

  He continued guiding the flow.

  Slowly.

  Precisely.

  The familiar heaviness did not increase.

  It remained unchanged.

  Complete.

  Closed.

  He finished the circulation.

  Waited.

  Attempted again.

  The result was the same.

  No resistance.

  No pain.

  No instability.

  Just no growth.

  —

  The next morning, he observed his breath more carefully during training.

  Zhao Rui’s presence felt brighter now.

  Not larger—

  Brighter.

  His own core felt like iron submerged in deep water.

  Unmoving.

  —

  That evening, Shen An tried something different.

  Instead of guiding Qi inward—

  He held it at the edge of the dantian.

  Pressed gently.

  Not forcefully.

  Just enough to test.

  The core did not reject it.

  But it did not absorb it either.

  It was like pressing mist against stone.

  The mist thinned.

  The stone remained.

  He opened his eyes.

  For the first time since entering the sect—

  He did not know the next step.

  —

  Across the courtyard, Instructor Han glanced toward him briefly.

  Then away.

  Some walls were not meant to be explained.

  Only encountered.

  —

  That night, Shen An did not sleep immediately.

  He rested his palm lightly over his lower abdomen.

  The core was still.

  Dense.

  Quiet.

  But something about its stillness felt different now.

  Not complete.

  Contained.

  Like weight waiting for direction.

  He closed his eyes again.

  Tomorrow—

  He would not attempt a second circulation.

  He would attempt something else.

  Not expansion.

  Not speed.

  But change.