Evening settled quietly over the outer courtyard.
Training had ended.
Most disciples had already returned to their quarters.
A few remained seated in meditation.
Zhao Rui stood near the water basin, washing his hands slowly.
His movements were controlled.
Precise.
But tonight, his gaze shifted once—
Toward the lower corner of the courtyard.
Shen An sat alone.
Back straight. Breath even.
He completed his single circulation.
Stopped.
Opened his eyes.
Zhao Rui approached.
Not loudly. Not with authority.
Just walking.
Several disciples noticed.
Whispers almost formed—then dissolved.
Zhao Rui stopped a short distance away.
He did not look down.
He did not cross his arms.
He simply asked,
"Why don't you attempt a second?"
His tone carried no mockery.
Only curiosity.
Shen An looked at him.
Calm.
"There is no need," he said.
Zhao Rui studied him.
"Your depth was higher than mine."
It was not accusation.
It was fact.
Shen An shook his head slightly.
"Depth is not height."
Zhao Rui's eyes narrowed faintly.
"You don't want to advance?"
"I am advancing."
A pause.
The courtyard felt still.
Zhao Rui considered that.
"You don't feel pressure?"
Shen An thought for a moment.
Then answered honestly.
"I feel weight."
The word lingered between them.
Weight.
Not urgency. Not competition.
Zhao Rui looked at him longer this time.
As if trying to measure something unseen.
Then he nodded once.
"I will attempt again tomorrow."
He turned to leave.
After two steps, he stopped.
"Don't fall too far behind."
There was no threat in it.
Only expectation.
Then he walked away.
Shen An remained seated.
He did not feel challenged.
He did not feel provoked.
But he understood something quietly:
Zhao Rui's path moved upward.
Bright. Ambitious. Visible.
His own moved downward.
Dense. Compressed. Unseen.
Both were aware of the other now.
That changed the air.
From a distance, Instructor Han observed the exchange.
He said nothing.
But his gaze lingered longer than usual.
Two foundations. Two philosophies.
The mountain would test both.
Not with noise.
With time.
That night, Shen An circulated once.
The core responded instantly.
Still. Heavy. Complete.
He felt no need to reach outward.
Because what he was building—
Was not meant to rise yet.
Morning arrived colder than usual.
Mist clung to the courtyard stones.
Outer disciples gathered in rows.
Instructor Han's gaze swept across them once.
"Top five," he said evenly,
"second circulation under supervision."
No surprise this time.
Zhao Rui stepped forward.
At eight years old, he stood taller than most around him.
Posture straight. Movements assured.
He sat.
Closed his eyes.
First circulation—
Clean. Controlled. Complete.
He did not hurry.
Yesterday's tremor had not been forgotten.
He began the second.
Slower.
Each segment of Qi was guided deliberately through its channel.
The air around him did not tighten as before.
It remained still.
Instructor Han stood nearby.
Watching his breath.
Watching his shoulders.
Watching the subtle tension at the chest meridian.
When the Qi reached the narrow channel that had resisted yesterday—
Zhao Rui paused internally.
Not stopping.
Not forcing.
He thinned the flow.
Reduced pressure.
Guided it along the edge.
The circulation completed.
Smooth.
Not powerful.
Not explosive.
But stable.
Instructor Han gave a slight nod.
"Better."
One word.
Zhao Rui opened his eyes.
There was no pride in his expression.
Only confirmation.
He had adjusted.
Shen An completed his single circulation in his usual place.
Stopped.
The core rested.
He did not feel envy.
He did not feel urgency.
He simply observed something quietly:
Zhao Rui's path required correction.
His own did not.
But his own also did not move upward.
Both had cost.
After training, Zhao Rui passed him briefly.
He did not stop this time.
Only said,
"Slower."
Whether reminder or conclusion was unclear.
Shen An inclined his head slightly.
From a distance, Instructor Han considered both.
One advancing through refinement.
One deepening without expansion.
Neither wrong.
But only one would face a wall sooner.
The mountain did not favor speed.
Nor did it reward stillness without transformation.
It tested endurance.
That night, Shen An circulated once.
The core remained.
Small. Heavy. Unshaken.
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow would not be different.
And he was content with that.
For now.
Three days passed without change.
Morning training.
Spirit rice distribution.
Evening meditation.
Zhao Rui's second circulation stabilized.
Not flawless.
But consistent.
Whispers in the courtyard returned—quiet admiration this time.
Instructor Han no longer stood beside him.
That alone meant recognition.
Shen An's routine did not alter.
One circulation.
Stop.
Rest.
Observe.
But on the fourth night, something shifted.
Not externally.
Internally.
When he drew Qi into his dantian, the core responded—
Instantly.
Too instantly.
There was no gradual sinking.
No layering.
The Qi entered—
And dispersed.
Not leaking.
Not escaping.
Simply… unable to compress further.
He continued guiding the flow.
Slowly.
Precisely.
The familiar heaviness did not increase.
It remained unchanged.
Complete.
Closed.
He finished the circulation.
Waited.
Attempted again.
The result was the same.
No resistance.
No pain.
No instability.
Just no growth.
The next morning, he observed his breath more carefully during training.
Zhao Rui's presence felt brighter now.
Not larger—
Brighter.
His own core felt like iron submerged in deep water.
Unmoving.
That evening, Shen An tried something different.
Instead of guiding Qi inward—
He held it at the edge of the dantian.
Pressed gently.
Not forcefully.
Just enough to test.
The core did not reject it.
But it did not absorb it either.
It was like pressing mist against stone.
The mist thinned.
The stone remained.
He opened his eyes.
For the first time since entering the sect—
He did not know the next step.
Across the courtyard, Instructor Han glanced toward him briefly.
Then away.
Some walls were not meant to be explained.
Only encountered.
That night, Shen An did not sleep immediately.
He rested his palm lightly over his lower abdomen.
The core was still.
Dense.
Quiet.
But something about its stillness felt different now.
Not complete.
Contained.
Like weight waiting for direction.
He closed his eyes again.
Tomorrow—
He would not attempt a second circulation.
He would attempt something else.
Not expansion.
Not speed.
But change.
The notice was posted at dawn.
A simple wooden board at the courtyard entrance.
No decoration.
Just three lines.
Outer disciples who complete two stable circulations
may register for low-grade spirit stone allowance.
Registration ends in five days.
The courtyard shifted.
Not chaos.
But movement.
Whispers.
Second circulation was no longer just recognition.
It was access.
Zhao Rui read the board once.
Expression unchanged.
He had already stabilized.
He would register.
There was no hesitation.
Shen An stood at the edge of the gathering.
He read it once.
Then stepped back.
He did not feel anger.
Spirit stones were not urgent.
His cultivation had not depended on external Qi.
But something within him reacted—
Not to the reward.
To the condition.
Two stable circulations.
Requirement.
Definition.
Boundary.
That evening, five disciples attempted forced breakthroughs.
One failed.
One vomited blood lightly.
Instructor Han did not intervene until necessary.
"Stability before gain," he said calmly.
The board remained.
Unmoved.
Shen An sat alone.
He circulated once.
The core responded the same as before.
Heavy.
Closed.
Unyielding.
He did not attempt a second circulation.
Instead—
He did something reckless.
He released the compression.
Not dispersing it.
Not destroying it.
But loosening the inner density slightly.
Like untightening a sealed lid.
The core trembled faintly.
Not unstable.
But no longer perfectly still.
Qi entered again.
This time—
It did not disperse.
It layered.
Thin.
Almost imperceptible.
But different.
Shen An's breath paused.
He did not continue.
He stopped immediately.
Restored calm.
Observed.
The density had reduced.
Very slightly.
But in exchange—
Movement existed.
He understood something.
He had mistaken stillness for completion.
But density without flexibility—
Was a closed path.
The next morning, Zhao Rui registered.
His name carved lightly into the wooden slate.
Five days remained.
Shen An did not approach the board.
Not yet.
He returned to his place.
And this time—
When he circulated—
The core did not feel like iron.
It felt like stone under pressure.
Capable of being shaped.
Instructor Han noticed.
He said nothing.
But for the first time—
He looked at Shen An
before looking at Zhao Rui.
The morning air felt thinner.
Not colder.
Not warmer.
Just… lighter.
Shen An noticed it during his first breath.
He did not react.
He joined the rows.
Instructor Han gave no new instruction.
Training began.
Qi entered smoothly.
Too smoothly.
Before, it had descended like sand settling into deep water.
Now it flowed—
As if the path inside him had widened.
He completed the first segment.
Stable.
Second segment—
The core responded.
Not heavy.
Not rigid.
Responsive.
The density shifted faintly with each breath.
Not dispersing.
But adjusting.
Like stone that remembered pressure.
Shen An slowed instinctively.
Something was different.
He reached the final segment—
And for a brief moment—
The Qi did not stop at the core.
It traced the outer edge.
Thin.
Searching.
His breath trembled.
Only slightly.
He sealed the circulation immediately.
Eyes opened.
No outward disturbance.
But inside—
There had been movement.
Across the courtyard—
Zhao Rui completed his second circulation cleanly.
His presence felt sharper now.
Defined.
Contained within clear boundaries.
Instructor Han gave a small nod.
Then his gaze shifted.
To Shen An.
A fraction longer than usual.
After training, more disciples approached the wooden slate.
Names were carved beneath Zhao Rui's.
Each stroke marked eligibility.
Two stable circulations.
Low-grade spirit stone allowance.
The rule was simple.
Shen An passed by the board once.
He read it again.
Registration for the allowance would close in five days.
Five days remained before the slate was sealed.
He did not step forward.
But he no longer felt separate from the condition.
That evening, he sat alone.
He circulated once.
The core adjusted.
Layering continued.
Subtle.
Controlled.
He guided Qi to the boundary again.
This time—
He did not withdraw immediately.
He allowed the thin current to complete a full circuit along the inner wall of the dantian.
Not rising.
Not forcing.
Mapping.
The dantian trembled.
Very faintly.
Not a crack.
A seam.
Shen An opened his eyes slowly.
For the first time—
Second circulation did not feel like upward movement.
It felt like unlocking.
Five days remained before the spirit stone registration closed.
He had not decided.
But for the first time—
He was no longer certain he would refuse.