On the seventh day after assessment, the bell rang at midday.

  That was unusual.

  Outer disciples gathered in the lower courtyard.

  At the front stood Instructor Han.

  Beside him rested a wooden crate.

  Inside were small cloth pouches.

  “Foundation allowance,” he said evenly.

  “Low-grade spirit rice.”

  A quiet shift passed through the group.

  Even at six, Shen An understood what that meant.

  Improvement.

  Faster circulation.

  Less fatigue.

  Something extra.

  “Distribution follows ranking.”

  The board was carried forward.

  Names. Numbers. Clear.

  Zhao Rui stood at the top.

  He stepped forward first.

  Instructor Han handed him a pouch.

  It was slightly heavier than the others in the crate.

  No one commented.

  There was no need.

  Rank carried weight.

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  One by one, disciples stepped forward.

  The higher ranks received fuller pouches.

  The middle ranks received moderate portions.

  When Shen An’s name was called, only a few pouches remained.

  He stepped forward.

  Instructor Han handed him one without expression.

  It was light.

  Not empty.

  But light.

  “Consumption is regulated,” Instructor Han said to the group.

  “Three grains per night.”

  A faint pause.

  “Do not exceed.”

  Several older disciples nodded too quickly.

  —

  Back in the common quarters, the mood shifted.

  Excitement mixed with calculation.

  Some compared weight discreetly.

  Some tied their pouch tightly and hid it beneath bedding.

  One boy glanced at Shen An’s smaller pouch and looked away immediately.

  Not mockery.

  Just measurement.

  Shen An untied the cloth.

  Inside were pale grains, faintly translucent.

  He picked one up.

  It was cool.

  Slightly warm beneath the surface.

  Alive, but restrained.

  He closed the pouch again.

  Night would come soon enough.

  —

  When darkness settled, the common quarters quieted faster than usual.

  Anticipation filled the air.

  Shen An placed three grains in his palm.

  Small.

  Ordinary in appearance.

  He swallowed them dry.

  A subtle warmth spread through his chest.

  Not violent.

  Not overwhelming.

  Gentle.

  He guided the warmth downward carefully.

  Breath steady.

  The Qi responded more easily tonight.

  The strand felt marginally thicker.

  Still small.

  Still precise.

  Across the room, someone exhaled sharply.

  Too sharply.

  Another disciple’s breathing quickened.

  A faint tremor of unstable Qi brushed the air.

  Ambition again.

  Instructor Han’s voice sounded from outside the door.

  “Three grains.”

  Silence returned.

  Shen An completed one full circulation.

  Stopped.

  The warmth settled completely.

  Nothing scattered.

  Nothing surged.

  It rested.

  —

  In the days that followed, subtle differences appeared.

  Zhao Rui’s presence grew brighter.

  His Qi circulation visibly faster.

  His stance stronger.

  Several older disciples began standing near him during training.

  Not deliberately.

  Naturally.

  Higher ranks gravitated toward higher output.

  Shen An remained where space allowed.

  Small.

  Unremarkable.

  But each night, three grains.

  One circulation.

  No deviation.

  No leakage.

  No backlash.

  On the fourth night, Instructor Han paused again behind him during training.

  Just for a breath.

  The instructor’s gaze lingered on Shen An’s spine.

  On his breathing.

  On the stillness of the Qi field around him.

  There was no flicker.

  No instability.

  Only compression.

  Instructor Han moved on without comment.

  But that night, when he reviewed the ranking board alone—

  His gaze rested briefly on one name near the bottom.

  Shen An.

  The mountain rewarded speed openly.

  It rewarded stability quietly.

  And quiet things, Shen An was learning, endured longer.