A month scraped away in frost and blood.
The bell wailed through the predawn darkness every morning, cold and merciless.
But Wei Lian was always awake before it.
He didn't dream anymore.
Pain was too heavy.
His ribs ached with every breath.
Hands split and scabbed, reopened daily.
He dressed in silence, wrapping the robe around old wounds.
Blood stuck it to his skin.
When he peeled it free at night it tore fresh lines.
He accepted it.
Outside, the mountain was colorless.
Fog clung to the ground like dirty silk.
The wind scraped the roofs with frozen claws.
He walked alone along cracked stone paths.
Bare feet felt the frost, but he didn't flinch.
Copper Hall loomed in the grey light.
Cold.
Silent.
Judgmental.
Inside, disciples huddled on thin mats.
Murmurs low and desperate.
"I can't feel anything in my arm anymore."
"I think my wrist is broken."
"I'm not going to survive this trial."
Wei Lian sat in his usual corner.
Eyes half-lidded.
Breathing slow.
Elder Mu entered like a shadow.
He didn't speak at first.
Just watched them with that flat, pitiless stare.
When he did speak, it was like a knife through bone.
"Breathe."
They obeyed.
Wei Lian inhaled.
Felt frost cut his throat.
Exhaled steam.
Inside, the ember in his dantian glowed at 2nd layer.
Solid.
Reliable.
And the crack beneath it had grown.
It pulsed slow.
Threatening.
Hungry.
Every day they practiced Bone-Breaking Fist.
Again.
And again.
Disciples cursed.
Cried.
Some walked out and never returned.
Jin Xiu shouted at his partner one morning:
"Sink your Qi! You worthless pig!"
The boy sobbed, arm hanging at a crooked angle.
Elder Mu only spat in the dirt.
"Let it break. Maybe he'll learn."
Wei Lian watched.
Memorized.
Forgot them.
He didn't have time for others.
He read his scroll until it fell apart.
Literally disintegrating in his hands.
He didn't care.
He had every line burned into memory.
He drilled long after others collapsed.
Fists splitting.
Qi refusing.
Breath hitching in frozen lungs.
He felt the mistakes.
Tracked every leak of Qi.
He corrected them one at a time.
Anchor.
Sink.
Channel.
Infuse.
He felt the change one night in the courtyard when the moon was a sliver behind black clouds.
He dropped into stance out of habit.
Didn't even think.
His fist moved.
Qi moved with it.
Not after.
With it.
The air cracked so sharp he heard the echo against the old walls.
Dust fell from carved lintels.
He froze.
Breathing hard.
He had reached it.
Master level.
The fourth level Mu had promised.
Where the decision to strike was the strike.
Where Qi was not commanded but obeyed.
He stood in the cold, chest heaving.
Blood dripping from split knuckles.
He felt the ember in his dantian blaze.
The crack pulsed, wide as a grin.
He exhaled.
And said nothing.
Because he understood one lesson better than any Elder Mu had ever taught:
If they knew, they'd use him.
If they used him, they'd kill him.
So he hid it.
The next morning, when Mu barked for demonstrations, Wei Lian stood without complaint.
He dropped into stance.
Breathed.
Sank Qi.
But not all of it.
He let it slip at the wrist.
Let the shoulder lag half a breath.
He punched.
Solid.
Real.
But flawed.
Deliberately.
Mu watched.
Eyes narrow.
"Skilled," he rasped.
"You'll survive the trial. Maybe."
He spat on the dirt.
"Next."
Wei Lian lowered his arm.
Didn't correct him.
Didn't smirk.
He just nodded once.
Stepped back.
Other disciples watched him like he was a ghost.
They whispered.
"He's a monster."
"He doesn't even have a spirit root."
"He doesn't talk. Just hits."
Jin Xiu glared at him across the courtyard.
Practicing until his arms trembled.
But still leaking Qi at every joint.
Wei Lian ignored him.
He took latrine duty without complaint.
Shoveled frozen waste with cracked palms.
Cart wheels squealing in the cold.
He used the time to visualize the strike.
Anchor.
Sink.
Channel.
Infuse.
At night he sat by the black creek.
Washing blood and mud from his legs.
Watching his breath curl in pale fog.
He practiced punches in the dark.
No audience.
No Elder Mu.
No rivals.
Air cracked sharp.
Ripples spread over the black water.
The frost at the edge of the creek shattered.
He felt the crack in his core pulse.
Patient.
Hungry.
He didn't smile.
Didn't gloat.
He sat in the mud until the cold soaked to his bones.
Eyes closed.
Breathing slow.
Master.
He knew it.
Owned it.
But when dawn came, he would hide it again.
Because tomorrow wasn't for showing off.
It was for surviving.