The bells rang deeper that morning. Not the sharp tones calling for drills, nor the quick rhythm that set servants moving, but a slow, rolling chime that seemed to hum through the very stones of the estate. Even the younger attendants paused, heads lifting as if the sound pressed on their bones.
It was the summons to the library.
The Library of Lingyao was no mere storehouse. Black-stone walls rose higher than any hall in the compound, engraved with coiling dragons whose eyes glowed faintly with inlaid jade. Golden-armored guards stood motionless at its gates. They did not need to speak; their presence was enough.
Inside, the air cooled at once. The scent of bamboo slips and ink mixed with faint traces of ozone from old array engravings. Endless rows of shelves reached into the shadows above. The lower tiers groaned with scrolls and slips; higher racks shimmered faintly, jade slips etched with characters that pulsed like captured lightning.
Some halls lay sealed, guarded by shimmering barriers. Knowledge reserved for those who had already climbed higher realms.
Master Qin's voice cut across the silence.
"This is the Li Clan's memory. Every law passed, every battle fought, every formula tested—recorded here. What you learn here, you carry not for yourself alone, but for your bloodline."
The children bowed, even Wei without his usual grin.
Released into the outer halls, they scattered. Jian darted toward Martial Records, eyes wide at diagrams of spear forms. Mei walked straight for Law Annals, her hands brushing ledgers with reverence. Rou lingered over Artifact Treatises, her jaw set as if the diagrams were challenges to be conquered. Wei scoffed but peeked over her shoulder anyway. Qiang hesitated at the threshold, his hands twisting together. Shun slouched toward a shaded alcove, pretending to nap while his gaze swept the shelves.
And Heng—
He moved slowly, his fingers trailing across the slips, his mind catching not on the words alone but the systems beneath them.
A bamboo slip described barrier arrays: symbols carved into stone, channels directing Qi, formations woven to shield or repel.
Heng's chest stirred. Circuits. Energy guided by paths. Failures not from lack of power, but from misalignment. A single fault, and the whole array collapses—like a short burning through a wire.
He set it down, fingers lingering.
Another text spoke of pill furnaces: mixtures of herbs, flames controlled by breath and will, failures that spoiled entire jars.
Chemical reactors, he thought. Variables of heat, timing, pressure. No miracles, only reactions. Control determines stability. Failure is imbalance.
He lifted a jade slip showing artifact forging: metals folded, inscriptions carved, Qi bound into shape.
Engineering. Material science. Strength comes not from ore alone but from treatment, balance, design. Inscriptions are coding, embedding rules into matter as surely as programming embeds commands into circuits.
His breath quickened. To others, myth. To him, systems.
The library doors closed at noon. Outside, servants moved in steady lines carrying trays of food. The smell of steaming porridge, sweet buns, and broth drifted through the courtyard.
"Careful!" a cook barked at a younger servant. "Too much flame and the marrow broth spoils."
Another muttered, "The alchemists wasted ginseng again—smoke pouring from furnaces for half the night."
Their words passed like whispers, but Heng's ears caught them. So failures strain not only learning, but supplies. Every waste ripples through the clan's stores. Efficiency isn't pride—it's survival.
He tucked the thought away.
At the meal tables, Jian devoured food as if victory lay in speed. Mei corrected his posture with a quiet glare. Rou spoke of forging halls she hoped to enter one day. Wei teased her until she nearly struck him. Qiang ate little. Shun finished quietly and leaned back, eyes closed but not asleep.
Heng chewed slowly. The porridge carried faint warmth, the kind of heat that lingered past the stomach. Herbs, spirit grain, beast marrow. Not flavor alone, but design. Even food is engineered for strength.
---
That night, when the nursery dimmed and the others drifted into sleep, Heng sat upright.
The memory of the incense courtyard rose: smoke curling, breath steady, Instructor Han's voice—"Too sharp and it scatters. Too weak and it dies."
He folded his legs and closed his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Steady.
At first, nothing. Only the sound of his own lungs.
He pictured the barrier diagrams. Paths must align. Flow must be guided. Breathing isn't air—it's current. Stability is rhythm.
Tightness built in his chest. Dizziness pricked at his skull. His breath grew ragged.
Then—faint. A brush, no stronger than a thread. Something entered, slipped, almost gone before he grasped it.
His eyes flew open. His breath broke. The flicker vanished.
Air rushed in, harsh and uneven. The world tilted, shadows crowding closer. For an instant, smoke filled his mind—thick, suffocating, hot. A hand pressed gently against his brow. A voice hummed, quiet and weary, words blurred by distance.
He gasped, clutching at the bedding. The warmth vanished. The nursery walls returned.
He sat trembling in silence.
Not triumph. Not miracle.
But not nothing.
For a moment, something had been there. Proof that Qi was not myth but law, waiting to be grasped. And a memory he thought buried had stirred—familiar, human, unbearably distant.
He lay back, sweat cooling on his skin.
Systems fail when inputs are wrong. Circuits collapse if pushed too hard. But once aligned, they endure.
His breathing slowed. His eyelids closed.
The night held no vows, no glory. Only a spark—fragile, fleeting, but real.
And sparks, if tended, could grow.