Lin did not decide immediately.
The thought of the tournament lingered with him through the night and into the following day, not as excitement but as pressure. It rested at the edge of his awareness in much the same way qi did now. Always present. Always waiting for him to slip.
He treated it the same way.
That morning, he cultivated before leaving his room.
Not because he felt particularly eager, but because routine had become a form of restraint. He sat on the mat with his back straight and legs crossed, hands resting loosely on his knees. His breathing slowed naturally, settling into a shallow, steady rhythm.
Then he reached inward.
Qi responded at once.
Warmth gathered beneath his skin, immediate and intrusive, as if his body had been waiting impatiently for permission. The sensation was familiar now, but no less alarming. At his current level, qi should have been faint, sluggish, something that required effort to perceive.
For Lin, it pressed forward eagerly, like water straining against a cracked dam.
He did not circulate it.
Instead, he compressed it.
The act felt wrong. Qi wanted to move. It wanted to resonate and deepen. Holding it in a thin, evenly spread layer beneath his skin required constant focus, like pressing down on something elastic that kept trying to spring back.
Pressure mounted quickly.
His skin prickled, heat blooming along his arms and shoulders. It was not pain, but it was close enough to be uncomfortable. A persistent urging whispered at the edge of his awareness, tempting him to deepen the circulation just a little.
Lin refused.
He kept his breathing shallow, his mind narrow, his attention locked firmly in place.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
His teeth clenched slightly as the pressure increased. The qi pushed back, testing his restraint, probing for weaknesses in his focus. His skin felt tight, as if stretched over something that did not quite fit.
When his breathing threatened to deepen, Lin stopped at once.
He released the qi deliberately, dispersing it in thin strands instead of allowing it to snap back all at once. The warmth receded slowly, leaving behind a dull ache beneath his skin.
Lin opened his eyes.
His heartbeat was steady. His breathing remained controlled.
Nothing burned. Nothing spiraled out of control.
"That was cleaner," the Sword God said.
Lin exhaled slowly. His arms felt heavy, but the ache was already fading, retreating faster than it should have.
"It feels like I am holding it in place," Lin said after a moment. "Not fighting it. Just refusing to let it gather."
The Sword God regarded him thoughtfully.
"That is suppression," he said. "Most cultivators learn to endure qi or overwhelm it. You are learning to tell it no."
Lin frowned slightly. "Is that… normal?"
The Sword God snorted. "If it were normal, I would not be wasting my time explaining it to you."
Lin accepted that.
"You are approaching the beginning stage of Skin Tempering," the Sword God continued. "Not by accumulating all the qi, but by forcing your body to adapt to controlled exposure. Your skin is learning restraint alongside strength. Slowly absorbing it at a pace your body can handle it."
Lin glanced down at his forearms. They looked unchanged. No visible hardening. No sheen. No sign of progress that anyone else could see.
"It does not feel like much," he said.
"That is because you are used to standing next to a cliff and calling it a step," the Sword God replied dryly. "Most cultivators would kill for this pace. Preferably someone weaker."
Lin almost smiled.
"Is it dangerous?" he asked.
"Yes," the Sword God said without hesitation. "Your progress is compressed. You are advancing faster than your foundation should allow. If your discipline slips even once, your body will happily accept more qi than it can survive."
That image settled heavily.
After eating, Lin went out to work.
The inner canals were busy that day, traffic heavier than usual as shipments flowed toward the city center. He hauled crates and sacks from barges to storage houses, his movements steady and controlled.
He noticed the changes immediately.
His grip was firmer. His balance felt surer on slick stone. When fatigue crept into his muscles, it receded faster than it should have. A shallow scrape along his palm sealed itself by the time he finished unloading a shipment, leaving only faint tenderness behind.
There was no denying it.
He was getting stronger.
Very fast.
Lin sat on a low stone wall during a brief break, flexing his fingers slowly.
"Is my rate of progression fast?" Lin asked quietly as he rested.
"Yes," the Sword God agreed. "Even restrained, your growth rate is abnormal. You are advancing as quickly as an incredibly talented female cultivator force feeding themselves pills."
Lin was silent for a moment.
"This is without pills," he said.
"Yes," the Sword God replied. "Which is why you are still alive. Pills would destabilize you, flood you with copious amounts of qi. Baths, however, might merely tempt fate."
"That is not reassuring."
"It was not meant to be."
Work ended late that day.
By the time Lin headed back through the city, the streets were crowded with talk of the tournament. Notices had multiplied, pasted over old postings and weathered stone. Registration posts stood at major intersections, officials seated behind simple desks, recording names and issuing small tokens.
Lin slowed as he passed one.
Body Tempering Division.
Open participation.
Rank separation enforced.
Identity verification not required.
Prizes were listed carefully, phrased to entice without promising too much.
Controlled access to medicinal baths.
Regulated distribution of low tier pills.
Conditional sect entry opportunities based on final standings.
Lin read the notice twice.
Pills were dangerous. Anything that forced qi into his system would strain the fragile balance he was building. One mistake and all his careful suppression would be undone.
But baths were different.
External. Gradual. Regulated.
They would strengthen his body without flooding it.
"You are thinking too hard," the Sword God remarked.
"I am thinking carefully," Lin replied.
"Same thing," the Sword God snorted. "Different excuse."
Lin stepped away without registering.
That night, he cultivated again.
Once.
The session lasted longer than the morning's, not because he pushed harder, but because his suppression held. Diluted qi circulated evenly beneath his entire skin, thin and controlled. When his breathing grew uneven, he stopped immediately.
No backlash followed.
Lin lay back on the mat, staring at the ceiling.
"I am advancing quickly," he said quietly.
"Yes," the Sword God replied. "Slow enough to avoid immediate death. Fast enough to make everyone else suspicious if you did it publicly."
"That is not comforting."
"You are cultivating," the Sword God said. "Comfort is no longer a relevant metric."
Silence settled between them.
Later, as the city quieted, Lin found his thoughts drifting back to the tournament. Not to winning. Not to recognition.
To registration.
To names, records, and scrutiny.
He understood now that Heaven was not watching.
People were.
And once noticed, he might have to disappear again.
Lin let the qi settle fully beneath his skin, compressed and quiet.
He was not ready.
But he was advancing at a pace that could no longer be ignored.
Whether that momentum would secure him a foothold or mark him as something to be claimed remained to be seen.