The morning after Elder Ru's lesson, the nursery courtyard was quiet.
Normally it buzzed with chatter and mischief—Jian's shouting, Wei's jokes, Rou's sharp remarks—but today silence hung heavy, broken only by the scrape of spoons against bowls.
The children ate slowly, each lost in thought. Jian's jaw was tight, his porridge stirred more than eaten. Mei's spoon rose and fell with unbroken rhythm, every motion measured. Qiang barely touched his food, his hands tightening and loosening as though the bowl might slip. Rou's shoulders were stiff, her posture too proud for someone so young. Wei leaned on the table, restless, fingers tapping, but his grin never quite reached his eyes. Shun sat as though half asleep, yet his spoon never once missed his mouth.
Li Heng watched them quietly, his own porridge cooling.
Last night's words still pressed against him like stone. Some climb. Most fall.
Jian broke first. "I'll rise at least as far as Golden Core," he muttered. His voice was sharp, his gaze fixed on some imagined battlefield. "Armies will follow me."
Mei didn't even look up. "Armies are worthless if no one knows how to feed them."
The clink of Jian's spoon against his bowl was answer enough.
At the far end, Qiang whispered, "What if we… what if we never even reach Foundation?" He bit his lip after speaking, as though afraid of the sound.
No one mocked him. Even Wei's smirk faltered.
The silence stretched again, until Shun spoke softly, almost a drawl. "Talking doesn't move feet." Then he leaned back, eyes half-closed once more.
Heng said nothing. His cousins' words were fragments of truth—ambition, caution, fear. Yet to him, they weren't certainties. They were variables. Input, output. Systems to be tested.
---
Later, Mistress Yao gathered them in the study hall. She set bamboo slips before each child.
"Copy," she ordered, her voice sharp as the brush in her hand. "Write until your wrists ache. Records outlast memory."
The room filled with the scratch of ink.
Heng's strokes were precise, deliberate. He copied the characters his tutors had given: Qi. Rule. Array. Pill. Artifact. He wrote the stages Elder Ru had named, but only once. Then he began a second slip—not to repeat, but to compare.
On one side he wrote: Stage, Years, Authority.
On the other: Application.
Foundation — centuries — a city.
Core — a thousand — a province.
Golden Core — armies.
Nascent Soul — a world.
He tapped the brush against the bamboo. It's not the stages themselves that matter. It's what each stage governs. Time, power, territory. They scale together. A ladder, yes—but also a structure.
His mind turned further. If every stage has years attached, if pills and artifacts are graded, then cultivation isn't chaos. It's quantifiable. Measurable. Not myth, not miracle.
Around him, the others copied with different hands. Jian's brush dug deep, ink blotting where he pressed too hard. Mei's characters were elegant, flawless. Qiang's strokes trembled, uneven. Rou wrote fiercely, as if carving each line into stone. Wei doodled extra curls until Mistress Yao smacked his hand with her brush. Shun's script was careless, yet somehow still legible, as if effort bent itself around him.
Hours passed. Shoulders ached, fingers cramped. The smell of ink filled the hall.
When Mistress Yao finally dismissed them, the children spilled back into the courtyard. Jian and Rou fell into argument again, voices sharp but not cruel. Mei carried her slips with both hands, posture perfect. Wei sprawled across the steps, muttering about ink stains. Shun stretched and drifted away.
Heng lingered behind, stacking his slips with care. His fingers lingered on the one where he had written: Stage. Years. Authority.
Most fall, Elder Ru had said.
Our ancestor forged every rung into his bones, his father had told him.
He looked out the window at his cousins bickering in the sunlight. They were not enemies. Not yet. But their paths would one day diverge.
He pressed the slip to his chest. I will not fall. And more than that—I will understand.
That night, Lady Yan entered his chamber. She placed a lamp on the table, its light casting warm shadows across the stone walls.
"You've been quiet again, Heng'er," she said, settling beside him.
"I was thinking," he admitted.
"Of Elder Ru's words?"
He nodded.
Her hand brushed his hair gently. "Some children dream too far ahead. Some tremble at the climb. And you—what do you feel?"
Heng's eyes lingered on the bamboo slips. "Curiosity."
Her brow rose. "Curiosity?"
He nodded. "If the steps of cultivation are laws, then they can be studied. If they can be studied, they can be improved."
Her lips curved, though her gaze was serious. "Curiosity is a blade, Heng'er. Useful, but dangerous if you press too hard. The heavens forgive no mistakes."
She rose, leaving him with the lamp.
Heng lay awake long into the night, slips beside him, the words carved deep. Outside, banners whispered in the wind.
Foundation—cities. Core—provinces. Golden Core—armies. Nascent Soul—a world.
Not miracle. Not myth. System.
And systems could be understood.