Winter thinned further.

  Snow melted along the lower terraces of the mountain.

  Outer disciples trained as before.

  Stance. Breath. Circulation.

  But differences were no longer subtle.

  They were visible.

  When Zhao Rui circulated Qi, the air around him faintly shimmered.

  Not dramatically.

  But enough that even younger disciples noticed.

  Some older disciples completed two stable circulations now.

  Instructor Han permitted it for the top ranks.

  Their allowance of spirit rice had increased.

  Progress accelerated.

  The ranking board shifted weekly.

  Names climbed. Names fell.

  Shen An’s position did not change.

  Low-grade root. Stable circulation. Minimal output.

  He remained near the bottom.

  —

  During guided practice, Instructor Han began timing them.

  “One circulation.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Now.”

  The courtyard fell silent.

  Breathing synchronized.

  Shen An guided the thin strand through familiar pathways.

  Down. Across. Up.

  Smooth.

  Measured.

  He completed it.

  Opened his eyes.

  Several others had already begun their second.

  Zhao Rui was finishing his second when Shen An finished his first.

  No one commented.

  There was nothing to comment on.

  The gap was visible.

  —

  That night, Shen An sat alone longer than usual.

  The three grains of spirit rice dissolved steadily.

  The Qi responded as always.

  Precise.

  Contained.

  Small.

  He extended his awareness carefully.

  The strand filled his lower dantian only partially.

  After weeks of cultivation—

  It was still only a thread.

  Not a stream.

  Not even a current.

  A thread.

  He inhaled.

  Guided it once more.

  Nothing changed.

  He did not feel frustration.

  But he felt limitation.

  The mountain’s air was dense with Qi.

  He could sense it more clearly now.

  It brushed against him constantly.

  Others reached outward—

  Pulled.

  Drew it in.

  He did not.

  He allowed only what settled naturally.

  Tonight, for the first time—

  He hesitated.

  What if he pulled?

  Just slightly.

  Just enough to close the distance.

  The thought lingered.

  Not loud.

  But present.

  Across the common quarters, a boy attempted his third circulation.

  Breathing grew uneven.

  A sharp pain-filled gasp cut the air.

  Qi scattered violently.

  Several disciples flinched.

  Instructor Han entered immediately.

  The boy clutched his abdomen, trembling.

  “Meridian strain,” the instructor said calmly.

  Not angry.

  Not surprised.

  The boy would recover.

  But he would fall behind.

  Shen An watched quietly.

  The scattered Qi in the air felt chaotic.

  Unstable.

  He lowered his gaze.

  The thought faded.

  He did not pull.

  He allowed the strand to settle exactly as before.

  Small.

  Unimpressive.

  Steady.

  —

  Days passed.

  The gap widened further.

  Zhao Rui had begun light body tempering drills.

  His strikes against wooden posts carried weight.

  Shen An’s palms still reddened after basic conditioning.

  He was six.

  His bones still growing.

  His muscles thin.

  Small among many.

  But at night, when all movement ceased—

  When the mountain exhaled into silence—

  His strand of Qi remained exactly as it had been placed.

  No tremor. No deviation. No fracture.

  Not larger.

  But deeper.

  Like a seed pressing downward rather than upward.

  Unseen.

  The mountain did not favor speed.

  It endured gravity.

  And Shen An continued to breathe.