The bell rang before sunrise.

  It rang every day.

  Outer disciples gathered in the lower courtyard.

  Some yawned openly.

  Some whispered.

  Some stretched stiff limbs.

  Shen An stood near the back.

  Not intentionally.

  It was simply where space allowed.

  Most of the outer disciples were older.

  Ten.

  Eleven.

  Some nearly twelve.

  Their shoulders broader. Voices deeper. Movements less uncertain.

  At six, Shen An was noticeably smaller.

  No one mocked him.

  There was no need.

  Size spoke for itself.

  —

  “Body before Qi,” the instructor said.

  His name was Instructor Han.

  Mid-thirties.

  Plain gray robes.

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  Eyes that missed little.

  They began with stance training.

  Knees bent. Back straight. Arms extended.

  Minutes passed.

  Then more.

  Older disciples shifted. Sweat formed.

  One boy muttered under his breath.

  Another adjusted his footing repeatedly.

  Shen An held position.

  Not because it was easy.

  Because he did not measure time.

  He measured breath.

  In. Out.

  The ache existed.

  He allowed it.

  It did not expand.

  It did not dominate.

  It simply was.

  Instructor Han walked between rows.

  He did not correct loudly.

  He tapped knees. Adjusted shoulders. Pressed spines upright.

  When he passed Shen An, he paused half a breath longer.

  Not enough for others to notice.

  Just enough to observe.

  The boy’s legs trembled.

  But his breathing did not break rhythm.

  Instructor Han moved on.

  —

  After stance came guided circulation.

  They sat cross-legged.

  Eyes closed.

  “Once,” Instructor Han said.

  “Do not attempt twice.”

  A few older disciples inhaled sharply.

  Ambition leaked through posture.

  Shen An did not increase speed.

  He allowed the thin strand of Qi to rise and settle as before.

  Small.

  Precise.

  Contained.

  To his left, a boy’s breathing quickened.

  To his right, someone swallowed hard, forcing flow.

  A sharp exhale broke the silence.

  Instructor Han’s voice followed immediately.

  “Control.”

  The word was neither angry nor kind.

  It was instruction.

  Shen An completed one full circulation.

  Stopped.

  He did not test further.

  He opened his eyes.

  Instructor Han was looking at him.

  Not with approval.

  Not with surprise.

  Assessment.

  After a moment, the instructor turned away.

  —

  Later, in the common quarters, conversation loosened.

  “Zhao Rui entered the inner chamber again,” someone whispered.

  “Twice this week.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “High-grade root.”

  The name carried quiet admiration.

  No one mentioned Shen An.

  There was nothing to mention.

  Low-grade root.

  Minimal output.

  Small body.

  Unremarkable.

  He sat on his mat and folded the manual closed.

  Outside, wind brushed against the stone walls of the mountain.

  Inside, ambition stirred among children who were no longer entirely children.

  Shen An lay down without speaking.

  He did not feel inferior.

  He did not feel resentful.

  He felt small.

  But small things could be stable.

  And stability, he was beginning to understand, did not announce itself.

  Across the courtyard, Instructor Han stood alone for a moment before leaving.

  His gaze passed once over the rows of stone rooms.

  It did not linger.

  But it did not forget.