The third day of lessons did not lead to the study hall.
Instead, attendants guided the children into a broad courtyard enclosed by stone walls. The ground was carved with concentric jade circles, glowing faintly, humming with energy too subtle for most to name. In the center, incense sticks burned, thin trails of smoke rising in quiet spirals.
Instructor Han stood waiting, plain-robed, hands scarred, expression unyielding. He gestured to the jade-marked floor.
"Sit."
The children obeyed, small bodies crossing their legs within the glowing rings.
Han lit another stick of incense and planted it firmly. The smoke curled upward, sometimes straight, sometimes disturbed by the faintest breath.
"You will learn to breathe," Han said. His voice was flat, like chiseling stone. "Breath carries Qi. Without breath, there is no life. Without life, there is no cultivation. Watch the smoke. Inhale. Exhale. Balance the rhythm. Too sharp, and it scatters. Too weak, and it falters."
The courtyard grew silent. Only smoke moved.
Jian drew in a huge lungful and coughed, earning a sharp laugh from Wei before Mistress Yao's brush cracked against the boy's head. Mei's posture was impeccable, her breathing slow and even. Qiang's breaths faltered, shallow and uncertain, until his eyes locked on the smoke and steadied. Rou sat stiff as stone, dragging in air with strain instead of ease. Shun slouched as if asleep, but the small stone on his stomach rose and fell with unerring consistency, each breath quiet as a tide.
Heng's eyes stayed on the incense. The smoke curls upward when undisturbed, bends sharply with a rushed exhale. The air itself carries the disruption. Not ritual—fluid mechanics. Inhale as intake, exhale as release. Too much flow, turbulence. Too little, stagnation. Regulation is the principle.
He closed his eyes and followed. Breath in, slow. Breath out, steady. The ache in his back dulled. Thoughts sharpened, clearer than before.
Instructor Han paced among them. He pressed Jian's chest to force slower breaths. He tapped Rou's shoulder and whispered, "Control is not strain." Wei was ignored entirely.
When Han reached Heng, his scarred hand rested briefly on the boy's shoulder. "You already notice."
Heng opened his eyes. "I watch."
Han's expression did not shift. "Watching is good. But rivers carve stone through flowing, not watching." He moved on.
Hours passed. The incense burned to ash. The children's small bodies ached though they had barely moved. When Han dismissed them, each rose stiffly, as if the air itself had weighed them down.
---
After Training
In the outer courtyard, Jian collapsed dramatically onto the stones. "Breathing is torture! When do we learn real techniques?"
Mei smoothed her sleeves with disdain. "If you cannot breathe, you cannot stand. If you cannot stand, you cannot fight."
Wei sprawled beside Jian, groaning. "I'll just breathe in my sleep. Then I'll cultivate twice as fast."
Mistress Yao smacked him again without looking.
Rou folded her arms. "At least I'll reach Foundation before you."
Shun cracked one eye, muttered, "Not if you suffocate first," and wandered toward the shade.
Even tired, laughter stirred among them, thin but real.
Heng stayed seated. With a stick, he traced loops and arrows into the dirt. To his cousins, breathing was a chore. To him, it was design.
Air as current. Qi as charge. The body as vessel. Too much flow destabilizes the system. Too little, it stagnates. Balance is calibration. Breathing isn't just survival—it's regulation.
His gaze drifted to the jade circles underfoot, faint light pulsing in perfect rhythm. What if a body could be aligned like this courtyard? Pathways refined, waste eliminated. Could cultivation itself be engineered?
The spark of the thought stayed, stubborn as fire.
---
Evening
When the nursery dimmed, Heng slipped outside. Moonlight bathed the stone paths in silver.
By the main gate stood a guard, spear planted upright, armor gleaming faintly. His aura was steady, Foundation-level—disciplined, contained. He had not moved since sunset.
Heng stopped, curiosity pulling words from him. "Uncle guard," he asked softly, "don't you tire, standing so long?"
The man looked down, faint surprise flickering before his eyes steadied. His voice was low, even. "At Foundation, the body does not tire. Fatigue is nothing. What strains us is the mind."
Heng tilted his head. "The mind?"
The guard's gaze returned to the horizon. "A man may stand for days without pain, but if his focus wavers for a single breath, he may miss a blade in the dark. Flesh endures. Attention falters. That is why even Core cultivators take watch. Strength stretches years, but vigilance preserves them."
He adjusted his spear, the movement smooth, ritual-like. "Remember this, young master: the enemy kills not when your legs fail, but when your eyes close."
Heng bowed lightly. "Thank you."
The man said nothing more. His focus returned outward, sharp as steel.
As Heng walked back beneath the moon, his thoughts stirred. So endurance isn't of muscle, but of focus. A system doesn't fail from wear—it fails from fluctuation. Stability is the real strength.
And then, unbidden, a thought from another world surfaced. On Earth, CCTV solved this long ago. A single lens could watch where ten men were posted. Cameras never blinked, never wavered. Manpower cut in half, vigilance multiplied. If such arrays existed here, how much more efficient would this clan's defenses be?
He exhaled slowly, almost amused. Impossible, for now. Yet the principle remained. Eyes that never closed. Watchers that did not tire.
That night, lying awake, Heng stared at the dark rafters above. Breath was regulation. Vigilance was stability. Even a guard on watch revealed hidden laws.
And perhaps one day, he would give this world eyes that never closed.