The morning air shimmered faintly over the training yard, banners stirring above stone paths polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. Rows of children stood ready under the watch of attendants. Instructor Han waited at the front, plain-robed, scarred hands folded behind his back, his gaze heavy as iron. He did not raise his voice, yet when he spoke, silence spread as if the air itself bent to his words.
"Strength is not noise. Rhythm is not show. You will learn stance, breath, and balance. Roots before branches."
The children bowed.
Jian leapt into position, stomping his feet too hard, arms swinging wide as if already wielding a spear. "Watch," he whispered, grinning, "I'll show a stance fit for a Golden Core!" Han's eyes cut toward him once. "Too fast. Too shallow. You leak strength with every motion." Jian flushed and adjusted, jaw tight.
Mei moved with neat precision, each step measured to the tiles beneath her. Han gave a single approving nod. "Balance holds."
Rou struck hard, her posture sharp, movements like hammer blows. Han lifted a hand. "Strength without flow is wasted. Qi cracks vessels that rush." Rou bit her lip but held her ground.
Wei stumbled deliberately, drawing snickers from younger children. Han ignored him. When Wei thought no one looked, his movements straightened—precise, stable—before slipping back into careless sway.
Qiang's knees trembled, arms stiff and unsure. Han crouched beside him. "Fear bends your spine. Look forward, not down." Qiang nodded quickly, face pale.
Shun slouched, half-lidded eyes heavy with indifference. Yet when Han corrected his stance, he shifted with sudden crispness—feet firm, back straight, posture exact—then relaxed again, almost mocking. Han's eyes lingered but passed.
Heng's stance was steady, nothing remarkable to watch. Yet his mind raced. Jian's excess was wasted current bleeding from a wire too thin. Mei's precision was efficient flow, resistance balanced. Rou's force was voltage slammed into fragile glass. Qiang's hesitation was current halting before reaching its node. Wei was interference—signal hidden under noise. And Shun—Shun was a strange one. Current dormant until needed, then precise, then dormant again. Selective. Controlled.
Every cousin was a calibration. Every body a circuit.
The drills ended. Jian boasted, Rou snapped back, Wei teased, Mei scolded, Qiang stayed silent, Shun yawned. Heng sat apart, not avoiding, simply watching. His finger traced shapes in the dirt—nodes, lines, channels. Instructor Han's words rang again: roots before branches. Breath before power. Breath regulated flow the way circuits regulated current. Unstable input meant collapse.
At midday, he walked past the forging yard with Rou. Sparks leapt from anvils, hammers struck, apprentices quenched glowing blades in troughs of water. Steam rose in hissing clouds. Rou's eyes shone. "One day, I'll forge a weapon strong enough to bear my name."
Heng studied in silence. Ore heated, impurities burned, strength folded, cooled, tested. Metallurgy. Material science. Design by heat and structure. No miracle. A hammer came down too sharply; the blade cracked, useless. The smith cursed, tossing it aside. Rou stiffened but straightened. "That will not be me."
The image fixed itself in Heng's mind. Too much force shattered what should hold. Alignment mattered more than fire.
That night, when the halls had quieted and the candle burned low, Heng sat upright. The array manual lay open, diagrams faint in the light. He inhaled slowly, exhaled. Not incense now, but diagrams, cousins, circuits. Jian's waste, Mei's precision, Rou's cracks, Qiang's halt, Wei's noise, Shun's selectivity. Each a calibration. Each a clue.
He steadied his breath. Inhale—current enters. Exhale—current cycles. Meridians as lines, nodes as components, lungs as input, dantian as core.
The flicker came. Warmer, steadier, lingering longer. His skin tingled faintly. His chest swelled, not with triumph but recognition. Flow aligned.
Then his breath slipped. The flicker collapsed.
Dizziness struck, heavier than before. The world blurred. For an instant smoke choked him—thick, hot, suffocating. A roof groaned above, firelight seared. A hand touched his brow, trembling but soft. A voice hummed, low and weary, words blurred in the roar.
He gasped, rhythm broken. The warmth vanished. The candle flame wavered.
He sat trembling, breath uneven, sweat cooling across his forehead. Failure. Yet not emptiness. The flicker had lasted longer.