The match was supposed to be routine.
That was the only reason Chen Mu agreed to it.
Internal sparring was scheduled twice a month for disciples of his standing—low-stakes, instructional, more about maintaining standards than testing limits. No wagers. No reputations on the line. Wooden swords or blunted steel depending on availability, rules enforced loosely but predictably.
Sword-only.
Chen Mu arrived at the training ground with no expectations beyond finishing without embarrassment. He had slept poorly the night before, his body still carrying the dull, uneven fatigue of staff practice. His shoulders felt loose in the wrong places, tight in others. When he rolled his wrists before drawing his sword, the motion felt slightly off-center.
He ignored it.
The opponent assigned to him was Shen Rui, an inner disciple one rank above him. Not exceptional, but respected—clean technique, disciplined footwork, a fondness for direct engagement. They had crossed blades once before in a group drill. Shen Rui had edged him out by consistency rather than brilliance.
They bowed.
The elder overseeing the ring gave a brief nod. "Begin."
Shen Rui advanced immediately.
That, too, was routine.
Chen Mu raised his sword and shifted into guard, blade angled forward, feet aligned precisely as the form dictated. The first exchange came cleanly—Shen Rui probing with a measured thrust, Chen Mu parrying and stepping back just enough to stay within orthodox distance.
Steel tapped wood.
They disengaged.
So far, everything was correct.
Then Shen Rui stepped in again, this time faster, pressing the advantage of initiative. Chen Mu adjusted—
And found himself stepping wider than necessary.
Not dramatically. Not enough to be called sloppy. But the distance between them stretched in a way that did not align with sword manuals. Shen Rui's blade cut through the space where Chen Mu had been, not where he was now.
Shen Rui hesitated.
It was brief—barely more than a flicker—but it was there. His intent, which had been directed toward a clean continuation of pressure, stalled as he recalculated.
Chen Mu did not press.
That surprised him.
Sword training would have demanded it: seize the opening, close distance, resolve the exchange. Instead, his weight shifted sideways, feet adjusting without conscious decision, placing him slightly off Shen Rui's centerline.
The movement felt… wrong.
It also felt inevitable.
Shen Rui advanced again, brow faintly furrowed now. His next cut was sharper, more decisive, angled to force engagement.
Chen Mu retreated—not straight back, but diagonally, blade tracking Shen Rui's sword without meeting it fully. The distance between them stretched and collapsed unevenly, like a tide that refused to settle.
Steel met steel again, briefly.
Then separated.
The exchange had lasted perhaps three breaths.
Already, it was confusing.
Shen Rui frowned openly now. He circled, adjusting his stance, trying to read Chen Mu's intent. Chen Mu, for his part, realized with a jolt that he had no intent to read.
He was not planning strikes.
He was responding to weight.
When Shen Rui shifted forward, Chen Mu felt it before he saw it—not as aggression, but as pressure entering shared space. His body moved to widen that space, not retreating so much as repositioning within it.
The next clash happened too close.
Shen Rui misjudged the distance, stepping in as if Chen Mu were still retreating in a straight line. Chen Mu's blade came up almost lazily, deflecting Shen Rui's cut while his feet carried him past the line of attack.
For a heartbeat, they were side by side.
That should not have happened.
Chen Mu felt the opening before he recognized it. Not as a target, but as absence—Shen Rui's center momentarily unguarded, his weight committed in the wrong direction.
Chen Mu's sword tapped Shen Rui's shoulder.
Clean.
Unambiguous.
The elder overseeing the ring raised a hand. "Point."
Silence followed.
It took Shen Rui a moment to process what had happened. He stepped back, touching the place where the blade had landed, confusion plain on his face.
"I—" He stopped, shook his head once, and bowed. "Again."
The elder hesitated, then nodded. "Once more."
They reset.
Shen Rui's expression had sharpened. Whatever confusion lingered was now edged with irritation. He attacked more aggressively this time, abandoning probing cuts in favor of direct pressure.
Chen Mu braced himself—
And then didn't.
He let Shen Rui come.
Not recklessly. Not passively. He adjusted his footing to maintain distance that felt wrong for sword work—too loose, too spacious. Shen Rui's strikes fell short, then overextended as he tried to compensate.
Chen Mu's blade moved, but it was no longer the focus. It followed his body instead of leading it, intercepting just enough to keep Shen Rui from recovering cleanly.
The exchange ended almost as quickly as it had begun.
Shen Rui lunged, certain this time, and Chen Mu shifted off-angle, weight rolling through his hips in a way that had nothing to do with sword form. Shen Rui's momentum carried him forward into empty space.
Chen Mu's sword touched Shen Rui's ribs.
Twice.
The elder raised his hand again. "Enough."
The ring went quiet.
A few observers exchanged glances. Someone let out a low whistle, more surprised than impressed.
Shen Rui stood there, breathing hard, then bowed deeply. "Well fought."
Chen Mu returned the bow automatically.
His heart was pounding—not from exertion, but from delayed realization. The match had lasted less than a minute. He replayed it in his mind and found nothing he could name as a technique.
No decisive cut.
No clever feint.
Just… movement.
As they stepped out of the ring, murmurs followed.
"Strange footwork."
"Shen Rui rushed that."
"Lucky angle."
"Unpredictable, that one."
Chen Mu kept his gaze forward.
Luck.
Unpredictability.
Those were safe explanations. Comfortable ones. They required no reevaluation of doctrine, no acknowledgment that something unorthodox had slipped through the cracks.
He welcomed them.
Later, as the next match began, Chen Mu caught sight of one of the elders watching him—not intently, not suspiciously, but with mild curiosity, as if noticing a stone slightly out of place on a familiar path.
The look lingered.
Then moved on.
Sword practice concluded without further incident. Chen Mu performed his remaining drills adequately, though the constriction returned now with added discomfort. His body wanted to step wider, to shift differently, to treat distance as something malleable rather than fixed.
He forced himself to comply.
The sword obeyed.
That night, alone in his room, Chen Mu sat on the edge of his bed with his sword laid across his knees.
He did not draw it.
He did not cultivate.
He simply sat, replaying the sparring match again and again, searching for pride and finding none.
Instead, there was unease.
The victory had not felt earned. It had not felt controlled. He had not imposed his will or executed a superior technique.
He had allowed something else to happen.
That unsettled him.
If he could win without intending to—what else might he do without realizing it?
The elders' mild notice weighed on him more than any reprimand would have. Attention, even casual, carried risk. He had not intended to stand out. He had not intended to reveal anything at all.
And yet—
Chen Mu lay back and stared at the ceiling, the familiar beam with its knotted grain watching him without comment.
He did not feel proud.
He felt displaced.
As if his body had stepped somewhere his mind had not yet followed—and the ground there, though solid enough to stand on, did not belong to any map he had been given.